


Chiaroscuro

by thirdholmes



Series: Concerto [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Morse Whump, Multi, Murder, Oblivious Morse, Oxford, Paganism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Persephone - Freeform, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, autumnal equinox, brief homophobic language, please for the love of Morse don't steal my OCs, post Elegy, serial killings, trigger warning for references to drug use/overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2020-10-19 14:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdholmes/pseuds/thirdholmes
Summary: When Morse discovers what appears to be a ritualistic link between a few unsolved murders spanning the past two years, the rest of Cowley station brushes it off as a lark. But two young women found dead, one every year, each discovered shortly after the autumnal equinox, is more than mere coincidence. It’s the beginning of a pattern.The third victim is found just days later on the banks of the Cherwell, the day after the equinox.Now, one year later, Morse must rush to find the killer before it’s too late, but breaking this pattern may just come at a price.





	1. Felicity

_ September 21, 1967 _

_ He was drowning. That was all he knew. _

_ Morse opened his eyes and saw nothing but dark water made murkier by the churning silt of the riverbed as he struggled against the hands that held him down against the bottom. His shouts were silent, producing nothing more than bubbles of precious air, his lungs screaming in protest, heart hammering. The claws digging into his shoulders relaxed their hold for the briefest of moments and Morse pushed up, breaking the surface of the water and sputtering, gasping for breath.  _

_ The chill of the night air bit into his skin, piercing through his thin clothes. He blinked the frigid water from his eyes as he fought against his assailant, nothing more than a dark form vaguely resembling a man, and saw a figure standing on the bank just behind him. A young woman with golden brown hair and deathly pale skin, the beads of water trailing down her arms shining in the moonlight. A face he couldn’t name or place. She could be anyone. But somehow he thought he knew her. He’d seen her before. _

_ Her dress was soaked, plastered to her shivering frame as she stood and watched. There was nothing distinctive about her features but he felt as if he knew her. As if he’d seen her before. _

_ “Run!” Morse yelled to her, suddenly struck with the thought that he was meant to be protecting her- no, not protecting- saving. He had to save her. “RU-” _

_ He swallowed a mouthful of river water as he was abruptly shoved back under, plants tangling around his arms and legs, restraining them with vice grips, preventing him from fighting back. After another stretch of eternity, Morse’s eyes began to sink shut, his body going slack. _

_ The last thing he saw before the water entered his lungs was the distorted form of his killer, outlined by moonlight, and the girl he couldn’t save. He fell back against the bottom of the river and kept on falling, falling, further, darker, falling- _

Morse woke up gasping desperately for air as he bolted upright, chest heaving. The nightmare gradually began to melt away and he recognized the dark surroundings as his small flat, blankets and sheets tangled around him and not the weeds at the bottom of the river. He made a distressed sound in the back of his throat and tore the blankets away, shoving them toward the end of the bed. In any other case he would feel cold without them as the radiator wasn’t on but Morse felt so feverishly hot that the cool air was soothing against his skin. 

_ It was just a dream.  _ He told himself, staring into the darkness in front of him, searching for and finding nothing. No riverbank. No water. No girl. Not here, not now. Somewhere else, someone else.  _ Only a dream.  _

Still breathing heavily, he brought a slightly trembling hand up to his forehead to brush his hair back, plastered to his forehead with sweat. The front of his shirt was soaked through and as he sat there, attempting to regain his breath, Morse realized he was shaking. Not just his hands, but his entire body, like a leaf in the wind.

He reached out for the glass on his nightstand, but his fingers were uncooperative, untrustworthy, and the only thing he succeeded in doing was knocking a half empty bottle off onto the floor. It hit the ground with a loud thud and rolled into the radiator, clanging off it and sending a sharp, tinny sound through the darkness. 

Morse recoiled from the noise, falling onto his side as blood hammered in his ears, clamping his lips shut to prevent hyperventilating anymore, but suddenly it felt like he couldn’t breathe at all-

Forcing himself upright, he pushed himself out of bed, staggering across his small flat to the kitchen space and turning on the sink faucet and splashing some water in his face, ignoring the fact that it felt just like the river, just focusing on trying to clear his head.

Shutting the sink off with a slight squeak, he fumbled with the latch on the window just above it, easing it open just a sliver so a whisper of cool air could slip through. 

Cool, September air. 

That girl from his dream was very much real, and Morse knew it. He’d seen her three different times, three different faces. 

There would be a fourth soon enough. And in a few days, Morse would be at that river again. 

Only, he wouldn’t be drowning. The girl wouldn’t be standing there.

He’d be watching uniform fish her body out of the water.

Just like last year.

Just like the photos from the year before that.

And the year before.

Morse had been given a year since the last victim. One year to find the killer before he struck again. 

Now, he had less than a week.

\------

It was one of those days where the world truly felt as if it were balanced on tenterhooks, swinging itself around with a fascinating lack of certainty. Chimneys puffed merrily into the sky as the cooling air danced around the burning trees, leaves slowly emerging flaming colour. Even though autumn was on its way, the past few days had been rather pleasant. Well, for some. For others it meant suffering with not knowing whether to go out in shirtsleeves or make sure they had a macintosh on hand. 

For Cowley Investigative Department it meant that the torrential rain at the beginning of the month paired with the warmth of late summer to create the most awful humidity, swelling the wood frames of the windows and making it a battle to open them. But the wrestling was worth it to permit the entry of a cool breeze. 

Morse and Thursday had come in at the usual time, the inspector headed to his office while Morse took his post at his own desk, staring down the stack of reports he had to complete. It was arduous and tiring but he’d fared worse than paper pushing. It only took him a few hours before the stack had decreased monumentally and he was left with the last of the reports. 

“Morning, matey,” Strange greeted him, extending a case file with a certain wariness that one experienced when unsure if they were holding out either an olive branch or flaming spear. “Missing persons just came in from nights, thought you might be interested.”

Morse’s irritation was fleeting, but there was a trace of a frown as he lifted the file up to make sure his pen hadn’t made any erroneous marks on the report he was signing. “Why’s that?”

Strange didn’t take the response as a negative and set the file down on top of Morse’s paperwork, settling into his chair and staring to type. “No idea, but Bright’s got me looking into some disturbance at one of the colleges, undergrads just come in for Michaelmas term in a few weeks, looks to be a bit of damage to a don’s vehicle. Start of term warming gift, apparently. Point is,” he paused his typing to turn to Morse, half pleading. “This is going to take up the afternoon and I’ve got to make up a four at this new club off the Broad later. You’d be a friend for life if you did this for me, honest. I’ll owe you one.”

He mentally debated arguing for the briefest of moments before settling upon the fact that it would only put both of them in a foul mood. Besides, he didn’t want the sergeant to shirk proper procedure and leave the matter half cocked so he could run off to some date. It wouldn’t be right. 

Morse sighed and pinched his brow before placing his finished work in the wire basket on the edge of his desk, opening up the missing persons report. There really was no way out of this. “You do realize one day you’ll have to make good on all these promises of yours, don’t you?”

A grin broke over the other man’s face and he got up to grab his coat, crossing by Morse’s desk to clap him on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

If the favours owed to Morse had monetary value he would’ve been the wealthiest man in all of Oxfordshire. They’d been steadily accumulating over the years because he had absolutely no idea as to how he was meant to cash them in. There wasn’t anything Morse could possibly need Strange to do that he wasn’t capable of taking care of on his own even thought the other was a rank above, and both of them seemed to be aware of that. Yet there they were.

Strange brushed past WPC Trewlove as he left, the constable shooting Strange a questioning look before turning to Morse for answers. “Where’s he off to then?”

“Property damage at one of the colleges, apparently.” Morse replied simply. 

This answer didn’t seem to provide the explanation Trewlove thought she was going to get. Instead of questioning any further, she deposited a stack of files on Strange’s desk and pulled up a chair to Morse’s, watching curiously. “What’s this, then?”

Morse finally turned his full attention to the file in front of him in an attempt to answer her inquiry. A photo of the missing person, a young woman, was clipped to the front of the report, and his brow furrowed as he studied her appearance. 

She was somewhat dark haired with brown eyes and a radiant smile that seemed to produce an air of warmth even from the confines of the colourless photograph. She was one of those quietly beautiful people, he thought. Not exactly plain, but not provocative or too self assured. Good natured. 

But what bothered him about her stunningly average appearance was how familiar she looked. 

_ A young woman with golden brown hair and deathly pale skin, the beads of water trailing down her arms shining in the moonlight.  _

_ “RUN!” _

He unclipped the photo and set it aside, eyes flitting over the report. The woman’s name was Felicity Thorpe, twenty years old, and missing since Monday, last seen wearing a light grey jumper and black pleated slacks. According to the statement, her parents hadn’t even known she was missing until last night, assuming she was still unpacking her belongings at the flat she shared with her friend closer to the university. They contacted the friend, Hazel Ashenhurst, after Felicity hadn’t come home for a dinner party they planned, only to discover that Hazel thought she’d been with her parents the whole time. 

She hadn’t seen Felicity since the 18th. Monday. And it was now Thursday the 21st. 

This was it. 

Morse stood so quickly he nearly knocked his chair over, throwing his hand out to balance it as he turned to face the file cabinets be his desk the way one would look at a formidable enemy. They had to be in here  _ somewhere.  _

“Morse?” Trewlove looked at him curiously. “Are you alright? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

_ He had, in a way.  _ Morse thought wryly, but chose not to answer, instead directing his attention to the cabinets, searching for the three files. Theresa Varley, Enid Cleary, and Josephine Abbott. It only took a few moments. He’d taken them out once at the beginning of the month, looking them over preemptively, putting them back when he found nothing new, nothing of use. But now, sadly, they  _ would  _ come to be of use. 

Morse spread them over his desk and opened each of them, plucking the photos from their clips and lining them up against Felicity Thorpe’s. Dark hair on the lighter side, brown eyes, same age, stature. Thorpe could have been Cleary’s sister. They all could have been each other’s cousins. 

Felicity Thorpe fit the type. The pattern. 

“Morse?”

Morse gathered up the files and walked up to Thursday’s office, finding the door open. He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe, announcing his presence, and the inspector looked up from his papers, setting his pipe in its tray. “Much in?”

He took a seat and handed over the files to Inspector Thursday. “A young woman’s gone missing, Felicity Thorpe. Local. Last seen by her flatmate on Monday. Take a look at her photo.”

Thursday did take a look and Morse watched as his brows elevated, nearly disappearing under the brim of his hat. “She looks-”

“Just like the other three.” Morse agreed, laying the other photos out like cards. “The other September killings. Guess what this Saturday is?”

“The equinox.” answered Thursday without hesitation. He grabbed his pipe and coat, handed the reports back to Morse, and led the way out of the office. “We’d best inform Mr. Bright about this, we’re going to need all hands on deck. If you’re right about this, Felicity Thorpe’s got less than a few days left to live.”

“I’m right.” 

Thursday nodded heavily. “Suddenly feels more like a curse than a blessing, doesn’t it?” 

The inspector rapped his knuckles on the frame of the slightly ajar door, and the two awaited to be summoned by the reedy voice that drifted past the haze of tobacco smoke. 

“Felicity Thorpe was last seen by her flatmate on Monday afternoon at the rooms they shared near the colleges,” Morse found himself explaining to Bright no more than a few minutes later, both he and Thursday listening intently even though the latter had just received a rough summation of the details. “The flatmate left to do the shopping while Felicity was meant to stay and unpack, but there was apparently some possibility that she’d go stay with her parents until Wednesday morning. She hadn’t quite finished packing for the flat yet, there were still some belongings left at the family house that she needed and relatives were coming up from Essex to have a dinner party, only Felicity never showed. I’ll arrange to speak to the flatmate, a Hazel Ashenhurst, see if there’s anything she’s omitted or didn’t want the parents to know about. But I’ve a mind to suspect that Miss Thorpe’s been abducted.”

Bright frowned, squinting at the file in front of him before glancing at Thursday. “Where do you stand on this, Inspector? Early days, isn’t it? Too early to go crying wolf with this little to go on, I’d have thought.”

Morse opened his mouth to explain but Thursday dissuaded this with a single look.  _ Let me handle this one. _

“Felicity Thorpe matches the descriptions of three other girls found dead in the Oxford area over the past three years, each found dead on or after the autumnal equinox.” Thursday told him, taking a draw on his pipe. He exhaled the smoke slowly, a sense of solemnity surrounding the action. “They’ve gone unsolved for the most part until last year when Morse put two and two together, made the connection when Josie Abbott went missing on the twenty-second, but we stood around like spare pricks, didn’t think anything of it. Uniforms found her on the banks of the Cherwell out by Addison’s Walk two days later, the morning after the equinox.”

“We’ve got three dead young women,” Morse continued for him, unable to help himself. He felt a sort of nervous energy make its way into his words, his hands becoming animated, punctuating his points. “All unsolved homicides, exactly one year apart, starting with Theresa Varley in ‘64. We checked with Dr. DeBryn on this last year, and according to him no bodies came in on or around the equinox of ‘63, except a woman in her fifties that died in hospital and a little boy in a road accident. Theresa Varley was the first of the pattern, so far as we’re aware.”

“Pattern?” Bright repeated, an air of incredulity about him, his eyes widening. “Whatever do you mean by that?” 

“A series,” Morse elaborated, showing him the photographs the same as he had with Thursday. “Or a sequence, if you like. One girl every year, same day, same type. All killed on the autumnal equinox. He abducts them not long before, then drugs and drowns his victims on that date.”

Bright sat back in his seat, stubbing out his cigarette and folding his hands. “What do you need, Thursday?”

“Whatever you’ve got, sir. Anything, anyone.”

“Then they’re yours,” Bright nodded firmly, his mouth set in a line. “Take WPC Trewlove to help with searches and interviews, and Sergeant Strange when he returns from that business at the college. I’ll make sure patrols know to be on the lookout for Miss Thorpe. Do whatever you can, but make sure this girl comes home safe. This mad killer won’t get another one on our ground, is that understood?”

Thursday tipped his hat toward their superior. “Much obliged, sir. Morse.” 

Morse followed him out, stopping by his desk to grab his coat, notebook, and pen, checking that his warrant card was still safely in his pocket. Satisfied with the location of his belongings, he turned to Trewlove who was watching them expectantly. 

“So what’s this cloak and dagger business about, if you don’t mind my asking?” She folded her hands over her chest, looking between the two. “Anything I can do to help?” 

“I’ll bring her up to speed, Morse,” Thursday said, taking the files and presenting them to Trewlove. “You go on, talk to Miss Thorpe’s flatmate, see what you can get from her, and I’ll speak to the parents. Try not to worry Ms. Ashenhurst prematurely, we can’t be certain this is the work of our man.”

Morse frowned at him, almost about to protest.  _ Of course we know. What else could this be?  _ Instead, he just nodded dutifully. “Sir.” 

He headed out, leaving Thursday and Trewlove to pore over the reports of the dead, the people that couldn’t be helped anymore. Josephine Abbott, who they let die. 

He set off on the path of the living, darkened by the spectre of death.

\------

_ September 24th, 1966.  _

_ That was when they found the body of Josephine Abbott, just as Morse said they would.  _

_ The call came in to Jakes who stubbed out his smoke and drew the porcelain receiver to his ear with a curt bark of his name and a half interested silence as he listened to the voice on the other end. His shift was almost over and he was no doubt impatient to get out of the nick and head to the pub.  _

_ Morse looked up with interest, his body a bundle of nerves that just simply wouldn’t calm down. He’d spent most of the previous night camped out at his desk, staring at his phone waiting for a call to come in, a call about a young woman, but it never came. At one point he didn’t know what else there was to do and got to his feet, gathering his coat and the keys to the Jag, driving to the nearest park, armed only with a torch as he scoured the banks of the river, hoping that if he couldn’t at least catch the killer in the act, he’d perhaps come across Abbott, alive or dead. Hopefully the former. He’d be able to call an ambulance, they’d stabilize her, and that would be one less life taken by the elusive killer. _

_ That was the thing about the deaths, they hardly seemed linked. In many ways they weren’t, but what mattered was every way they did. Theresa Varley was before his time at the station, it was only sheer happenstance that he came across her file and that of Enid Cleary in the following year when he was organizing the cold cases, putting two and two together. The girls were identical to each other. The manner of death was the exact same. Drowning. They were found on the banks of some stretch of the Cherwell. Drugs in their system. Downers and the like.  _

_ Two identical, mirror image deaths. It was the beginning of a pattern, but it seemed that it just wasn’t enough for anyone else to believe. The two cases were either isolated incidences or, if they were the work of the same person, then it was only those. Varley and Cleary were specifically targeted and them alone.  _

_ Morse didn’t put any stock in that absurd theory. The trouble was that everyone at Cowley did.  _

_ Josie Abbott had a rough history with her family. She’d run away before. Her father was a drinker. Everyone just assumed she’d lit out in the night, that if she wasn’t back by the turn of the week then she’d finally gone for good. It was just a coincidence that she looked like the other two girls, that she vanished around the same time. _

_ But Morse wasn’t much of a believer in coincidence.  _

_ Her older sister reported her missing just as she’d done every time, bringing by a photograph that now sat on Morse’s desk, staring back at him.  _

_ Jakes looked up from the phone, staring at Morse, not expecting to find his gaze met. His eyes flitted away and he ended the call, grabbing his coat and rushing toward Thursday’s office, forgetting to even put the phone back on the hook. _

_ “Jakes-” Morse rose to meet him. _

_ “I need to speak to Inspector Thursday-” Jakes waved him aside as he stood to meet him. _

_ “It’s her, isn’t it?” Morse demanded, glaring at the sergeant who now wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Abbot. Is she-?” _

_ “Not the time, Morse.” Jakes hissed, striding into the office and shutting the door so forcefully that the pane of glass rattled.  _

_ Morse didn’t move from where he stood, still staring at Thursday’s door. He could barely hear the muffled conversation beyond it, but he wasn’t even trying to. He didn’t need to. Because after another minute the door opened and Jakes appeared, looking much more gaunt than he had moments ago, his eyes darker.  _

_ Wordlessly, he nodded, and Morse followed him into the office where Thursday was sitting at his desk, head in his hands. _

_ “Sir?” Morse ventured cautiously. _

_ The inspector looked up and very pointedly did not meet Morse’s eyes, his gaze traveling past him to Jakes. Morse turned to him expectantly, his stomach plummeting, heavy with dread.  _

_ Jakes cleared his throat, his voice slightly strained. “They found Josie Abbott’s body on the Cherwell, just near Addison’s Walk. She’d been drowned.” _

_ Morse’s knees suddenly felt weak and he stood straight, locking them so he didn’t stumble. The room swayed around him as nauseous vertigo struck. He swallowed uncomfortably and attempted to remain composed.  _

_ “You were right, Morse.” Thursday sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Down to the last detail. We should have listened to you.” _

Yes, _ Morse thought hollowly, trying not to snap, the words not sounding quite like his own.  _ You should have. 

_ But that sort of thinking wasn’t going to get them anywhere.  _

_ Two had turned to three. The killer wouldn’t resurface for another year. _

_ They had until then to find him. They had until then before another girl died. _

\------

It didn’t take long to find the address, after all it wasn’t far away at all. The trouble was finding the resident. 

Morse knocked on the door of Hazel Ashenhurst and Felicity Thorpe’s flat two sets of times in a span of three minutes before deciding that no one was present, backing off the step and making to leave down the street to where he’d been forced to park when someone spoke.

“Are you one of the boyfriends, then?”

He spun on his heel and saw that a middle aged woman was walking down the sidewalk toward him, purse in hand, a set of keys in the other. She stopped a few feet away and crossed her arms, giving Morse a disapproving glare that suggested he’d done something to personally offend her. 

Morse arched an eyebrow before presenting his warrant card in a practiced fashion. “Detective Constable Morse, City Police. Miss-?”

The woman’s face softened and her arms uncrossed as she regarded him in a new, more approving light. “Mrs.” she corrected. “Deirdre Norton. You must be here about Ms. Thorpe.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Morse nodded.

“I know all about it,” Mrs. Norton looked very sympathetic. “Ms. Ashenhurst was half out of her mind with worry when I saw her this morning, poor girl.”

“Do you know her well?”

“Not really.” she admitted. “They’re just renting first floor from me, I live in the street level flat, act as the landlady, general housekeeper and whatnot. My husband, useless sod, he does the maintenance, ‘course you have to give him a good poke or two to even get him out of his bloody chair!”

She started laughing at her own joke and Morse tried for a small smile, but he wasn’t able to waste much time with small talk. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have the names of those boyfriends you mentioned, would you?” Morse asked, trying to move the conversation along.

Mrs. Norton laughed again. “Oh dear, I don’t even know if there are any names to give. Handsome young man like yourself shows up at my doorstep, my tenants are two young, pretty college girls, I made my guess. Clearly I was wrong.” 

The hopeful prospect of a lead vanished as quickly as it came and Morse tucked his warrant card back into his pocket, folding his arms behind his back. “Did Ms. Thorpe make any indication as to where she was going Monday evening?” 

“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t in when she left.” Mrs. Norton replied, bringing her hands together and gazing up at the first floor window. “I’d gone up to Burridge’s, they’ve a seasonal sale on at the moment, thought I’d take a look, get some nice things for the flat.”

“Have you noticed any strange or unfamiliar people around here lately?” 

“Aside from you?” she joked.

Morse scoffed lightly, but gave a good natured smile that was returned immediately. 

“There’s lots of unfamiliar faces up here, love.” Mrs. Norton explained with a helpless wave of her hand. “Start of term, new students searching for cheap lodgings off campus. All of them start to look the same after a bit, I’m afraid. I’m sure Ms. Ashenhurst will be of more help to you than I am.”

“Any idea where I might find her?” Morse inquired. 

The landlady nodded. “She works at Blackwell’s off the Broad. She doesn’t get off until half seven, you’ll still catch her there.”

Morse thanked her for her time and left a number by which she could contact the station should she have anything further to say, but he doubted that Mrs. Norton could be relied upon as a font of valuable information. He got back into his car and headed over to Blackwell’s in search of Hazel Ashenhurst.

Once in the bookshop he spoke briefly to a man at the till and was directed to the children’s section, finding a young woman stocking thin, hardback books with absurd colours and even stranger titles. She had golden hair that was pinned up and curled in a common fashion, a green plaid dress, and although she was wearing velvet flats, when she stood, she was no more than an inch shorter than Morse. 

“Hazel Ashenhurst?” he inquired, already knowing the answer. 

She set down the book she was about to shelve, amber eyes finding his, annoyed, but there was a certain uncertainty that shadowed it. “Who wants to know?”

He showed her his warrant card, repeating the introduction he had done with Mrs. Norton only minutes before. 

“I already told the police everything I knew when I filed the report with Felicity’s parents.” Hazel shook her head, shelving the book she’d put aside, pushing her cart to another aisle, Morse following. She gestured to the books. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m a bit behind right now, came in late.”

“Oh, don’t let me stop you.” Morse smiled slightly, waving his hand. 

She seemed relieved.

“There might be some things that you didn’t feel comfortable-” He paused as two young men passed them on the aisle, cutting through to the one across, chattering excitedly between each other. “Some things you didn’t feel comfortable saying in front of her parents.”

Hazel squeezed an economics book between two others, barely fitting it on the shelf before she cast an unpleasant look at Morse. She crossed her arms, shaking her head fretfully. “You think she’s run off, don’t you? That’s why you’re here asking me questions instead of being out there,  _ looking  _ for my friend-”

“I  _ am  _ looking for her, Ms. Ashenhurst,” Morse assured her, tucking his hands into his pockets. “This is just routine inquiry. I’m searching for leads, and anything you can tell me would be incredibly helpful.”

Hazel sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “She was just  _ gone,  _ alright? I came back from doing the shopping and found her gone. It’s just like I told the officer, I didn’t see anything out of place, the locks weren’t damaged, nothing was wrong. I was so busy with unpacking and helping the movers get the furniture in, plus the landlady was practically breathing down my neck, asking if we-I- needed any assistance- I should have called her house, checked to see that she was there, I-” 

She stopped and took a steady breath, wringing her hands. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, I just- I’m  _ worried,  _ and if something’s  _ happened  _ to her, I don’t know what I’ll-” Her hands flew up her eyes and she quickly swept away a tear, sniffling _ . _ Sorry, I’ll answer your questions.”

Morse flipped open his notebook, locating his pen in his pocket. “Might she have gone to stay with a boyfriend, or another friend, perhaps?”

Hazel shook her head. “She hasn’t got one.”

“A boyfriend or another friend?”

“Both,” she replied. “Felicity- she likes to have a close circle. I’ve been her only friend for quite some time.”

“There’s no one she would just go off with like this?”

“She’s not the type.” Hazel tugged at her sleeve. “She’s careful, she is. Parents taught her well, better than mine at any rate. There’s no boyfriend, no other friend, no one. She’s only got me and her parents.”

“What about an acquaintance?” Morse tried, running out of choices. His suspect pool was hardly that. It was incredibly small and rapidly decreasing. “Is there anyone that knows her well enough to perhaps lure her away, a ruse that would make leaving a note an afterthought?”

“I don’t-” Hazel started then stopped, thinking. “I don’t know, maybe something to do with her mum? If someone rang or came by, said she’d taken a turn, she’d rush home. Her heart’s not been well these past few months. Not a secret though, the Thorpes are friendly with everyone, really well liked. I can’t think of anyone that would do her harm, honest. No one we know, at least. I swear I don’t know anything else.”

Morse tugged on his earlobe without realizing it and passed the movement off as straightening his collar. He spent a moment trying to come up with something else to ask her, but found nothing. She didn’t have the answers to the questions he had. If Thursday couldn’t find anything with the family then they would finally have no choice but to accept the worst. He’d already done so, but this was just the final confirmation.

He gave a light smile and polite nod. “Well please do contact us if anything comes to mind. We’ll do our best to bring her home safe, Ms. Ashenhurst. I promise.”

Hazel tried to smile back but there was too much concern on her face for it to break through. She went back to her shelving and Morse turned to leave before he decided to try his luck with one last shot.

“Have you or Felicity ever known anyone named Theresa Varley, Enid Cleary, or Josephine Abbott?”

The young woman looked back up from the books. “Have they got something to do with this?”

“Do you know the names?”

A moment passed as she thought. “No, no, they don’t ring a bell, I’m sorry.”

He should have expected as much. Trying not to seem disappointed by the lack of answers, he forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Oh, well, I just thought I’d ask. Thank you for your time, Ms. Ashenhurst.”

“You’ll find her, right?” Hazel blurted quickly before he could turn away. “You’ll find Felicity. Bring her home.”

The questions sounded too much like demands. 

“I’ll certainly try my best.” That was the only promise he knew he’d be able to keep. 

Morse ducked his head, leaving the shop to head back to the station, feeling like he’d accomplished nothing. 

\------

_ They arrived at the river a few minutes later. Strange was already on the scene and met them where the path came nearest to the road, leading them down the trail that followed the river.  _

_ Soon, the light of torch beams huddled close together along the edge of the path came into view, forensics and patrol officers alike staring down at something in the weeds. Their small party stopped just close enough for Morse to see Dr. DeBryn crouched on the water’s edge, leather satchel at his feet as he directed two officers in waders. "Easy with her, lads, easy." _

_ It was no mystery as to why her body hadn’t been discovered until the following night. This part of the river didn’t seem very well travelled, unkempt trees hanging over the water, summer growth yet to be trimmed back to make room for the punters. The path at this part consisted of well packed dirt, not as nicely paved as the other parks in the area. _

_ She could have gone undiscovered for days, weeks, even.  _

_ An officer stood off to the side with a middle aged woman and her dog, the woman hugging her arms to her chest while the dog tested the length of its leash, roaming around as far as it could go.  _

_ “The woman was on an evening walk with her dog,” Strange nodded toward the bystander. “The dog ran over to the water and that’s when she saw the body. Went to the nearest phone and called it in.” _

_ “Does she walk this path regularly?” Jakes inquired, folding his arms. “You said it’s her evening walk, it’s possible she could have seen something last night, that’s when he’d have done it. Right, Morse?” _

_ He looked to the constable for a reply but Morse was already walking toward the water, feet moving of their own accord. Garbled conversation sounded muted to his ears, lights phasing in and out of focus as he stumbled through the crowd, pushing his way through and stopping when DeBryn stood and flung an arm out, holding him back.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Morse, you can’t come any closer.” DeBryn shook his head, wiping at his brow with his forearm and swallowing heavily. “You needn’t look, she matches the photograph perfectly. It’s Abbott.” _

_ But Morse couldn’t keep himself from looking. Some part of him had to confirm it, had to know for himself, and that part forced him to look past DeBryn, following the light of the torches that all seemed to focus on one particular spot on the lowest part of the bank.  _

_ Her long chestnut hair was caked with mud and tangled in the weeds, vivid bruises standing out against pale white skin, lips blue, throat purple. The skirt of her dress was still wet, soaked through and clinging to gangly legs like she’d only just been hauled from the water, found half in, half on the bank, like the killer gave up and left the police to finish the job. Or perhaps the placement was deliberate, making it easier for her to be hidden while not being swept away by the current.  _

_ He expected the girl’s eyes to be thrown open with shock or fear, containing the last reflections of her murderer, but they were closed as if in sleep, her features calm, almost peaceful.  _

_ There had been ample time to look for her, to prevent this. It just hadn’t been enough for Morse to do by himself.  _

_ He couldn’t even direct the blame internally. Everyone else was equally culpable. They just couldn’t admit it, otherwise there may have been grounds for a lawsuit by the family. Morse didn’t care. He’d rather the truth be laid out in the open rather than concealed, but he’d be overruled without a thought.  _

_ There was nothing to be done for Josephine Abbott. Nothing but stale justice, too late to be of any value.  _

_ “Christ,” Thursday hissed from over Morse’s shoulder, and even Jakes drew in a sharp breath.  _

_ “I don’t think he had anything to do with this,” DeBryn said offhandedly, letting his arm fall back to his side. “The deceased is Josephine Abbott, aged nineteen. Judging by rigor, which is almost gone, mind, I’d say she’s been dead about thirty hours or so, killed sometime last evening. The water will likely have washed away most of our evidence, but I’ll do my best to salvage what I can.” the pathologist picked up his bag and gave one last look at the body in the mud. “I’ll have to do a full post-mortem but I’d have to concur with Constable Morse’s theory that we are dealing with a single killer with a very particular modus operandi, someone who drugs his victims before drowning them.” _

_ “The bruises on her arms?” Morse finally got his voice to work, but the question sounded hoarse, even to him.  _

_ “She fought.” DeBryn said simply. “There are multiple needle marks on her arms, only one that looks like it came from an injection, the others just deep enough to draw blood. She tried to fend off her killer as he attempted to drug her.” _

_ “The clothes don’t match the description given by the sister,” Jakes shifted on his feet, rubbing his hands. It was getting cold, too cold for them to be stood in the dark without proper coats. Even Morse was shivering, but he couldn’t tell if it was due to the temperature or the guilt. “We’ll have to see if they were hers at all.” _

_ “They won’t be.” Morse shook his head. “The clothes Enid Cleary was found in didn’t belong to her, and they appeared well worn, so they weren’t new. He’s getting them from somewhere, though. We should run pictures by second hand shops and boutiques in the area, see if they recognize them.” _

_ “What about the first one, Theresa Varley?” Thursday asked. _

_ Morse racked his head but couldn’t come up with the answer. “I- I don’t know. I’d have to check the file again.” _

_ Thursday nodded. “Alright. Head back to the nick with Sergeant Jakes and start looking over those files of yours for any connections that will help with the case. You were right, lad. We’re looking for one killer. We know his game now, his victim type, and when he strikes. We’ll catch him before he has another chance.” _

\------

_ The river had washed away all the evidence, save for a single wool fibre. The shops didn’t recognize the clothing. Jospehine was put in the ground. 'Laid to rest' they said.  _

_ There was a single lead with an old boyfriend of Josephine’s who worked at the same cafe Enid Cleary had, but they found out he’d been in France for over a year with a very solid alibi- he was already in jail on charges of aggravated assault. No possible way he could have been in England to abduct and murder Jospehine Abbott. In fact, he even had an alibi for Cleary’s death as well. He’d been in the hospital with a broken leg for the past week after having fallen down a set of stairs while out drunk with his friends.  _

_ There was no connection to Theresa Varley at all. Morse spoke to her father and found that she had never met any of the victims, or if she had, it must have only been in passing. He didn’t know any of them.  _

_ Morse took the photo her sister left with him and clipped it inside the case file, grouping Abbott’s with Varley and Cleary’s and closing them up in the cabinet behind his desk, finally forced to address the ever growing stack of active cases on his desk. The equinox killings had gone cold, and they likely wouldn’t warm until the next year when the next girl went missing.  _

\------

And there they were again, with two days to find Felicity Thorpe alive.  _ _


	2. Ekho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Ekho (Echo) in [her] state fell desperately in love with Narcissus, but as her love was not returned, she pined away in grief, so that in the end there remained of her nothing but her voice (Ov. Met. iii. 365-401).'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, things have been incredibly busy between work and uni, but I promise I would never abandon this. The updates might just be a touch sporadic from here on out, but I'll try my best.

Strange examined the don’s vehicle and discovered that the damage had not been as substantial as the man, Professor Gambrell, had made it out to be in the call, which wasn’t entirely surprising. Back when he was on uniform duty he’d run into many situations like this, claims of vandalism and mischief all around, and usually little they could do without much in the way of suspects, chiefly dealing with blindly leveled accusations and petty disagreements. 

The vehicle had sustained damage to the driver’s side window, a large fissure splitting the glass almost perfectly in half. It certainly wasn’t pretty but it definitely wasn’t “positively  _ shattered”  _ as the statement had- well-  _ stated.  _ Apparently Gambrell left his car parked alongside Turl Street in front of Exeter College on Monday evening and came back to it Wednesday night, having spent much of the past day or so settling back into his rooms, unpacking, and catching up with colleagues. He hadn’t had time to move his car to one of the designated parking spaces off campus, something he was profusely regretting if his flushed face said anything. 

“I was too agitated to represent myself properly so I figured I would simply call the next morning, and here we are.” Professor Gambrell threw his hands wide before tucking them back into the folds of his robes. Strange couldn’t help but think that the man was  _ still  _ agitated. Short fused type of man. “You  _ are  _ going to find the person responsible, aren’t you? I’ve already come up with a list of some students I suspect who didn’t leave on a kind note last term-”

The prattling was lost on the sergeant as he further examined the window, making more of a show of it than he really needed to. Strange could see the remnants of fingerprint powder on the damaged window, evidence that the don had used some leveraging to rustle up a few forensics officers from the woodwork to give the scene a once over. The pull certain members of Oxford society had ceased to surprise him after so many years in the force. 

“-I’ll have you know, this is an  _ Avanti,  _ I only just-” 

“Well, I’ll get back to the station and write up a report.” Strange cut him off, standing straight and tipping his head. “Someone will contact you so you can come in and get a copy for your insurance.”

“Insurance?” Gambrell all but sputtered, an indignant flush rising on his cheeks. “Are you not even going to look for the vandal? I thought that’s what you’re meant to do! For goodness sake, you’re the police!”

Strange managed to refrain from shrugging. “I’m afraid that with little forensic evidence to go on there’s not much we can do in vandalism cases like this. If the lab doesn’t turn anything up and nothing comes back on the names you provided the most we can do is help in making sure your insurance compensates you.”

Gambrell looked as if he was about to utter some choice words then thought the better of it, taking a deep breath and smoothing down the front of his robes before extending a hand to Strange. “Very well. Thank you for your time, officer.”

“Afternoon.” Strange shook his hand and turned away to head back to his car, the professor already disappearing back onto the college grounds. 

He was very nearly back to the vehicle just a bit further down the street when he saw a young man standing on the corner of Brasenose lane, watching him intently. Strange narrowed his eyes and picked up his pace every so slightly. 

“Can I help you, matey?” Strange called out to the lad, no more than a few metres away. 

Realizing Strange had spotted him, his eyes widened and he took off down the lane. Strange ran after him but when he reached the mouth of the small street he saw the young man had taken one of the bicycles from a rack and was already on the far end of the street, turning the bend. 

Long gone. 

\------

Morse shrugged off his jacket as he stepped through the door to the bullpen, finding the normally busy room surprisingly devoid of officers. There was no sign of Thursday through the window to his office just yet, and the desks were vacant. After the earlier meeting with Bright, the chief superintendent must have kept to his word and lit a fire under the officers to mobilize them and get the search going. Hopefully they or Thursday had come up with more answers than he had. 

But that wasn’t to say he’d come up empty-handed. If anything, Morse had gleaned a bit more insight into Felicity’s life, a concept that seemed as intangible as gossamer. From what Hazel said, Felicity didn’t seem to be the most social or outgoing type. She was someone with a very close-knit circle, so given her level of carefulness the person responsible had either integrated himself in that group somehow or had existed on the fringes for quite some time. 

Perhaps that what he did, Morse thought. The man they were looking for could be charming enough to get close to these young women no matter their level of caution, or he was just unassuming enough to slip past those barriers undetected. 

That, or it was a woman. 

Movement beyond the paper covered glass wall caught his attention and disrupted that thought as he made his way further into the room, and Morse realized the space hadn’t been empty after all. 

Trewlove was partially hidden behind the photos and notes she stuck up on the glass, her face contorted with deep concentration and thought that was only broken the moment she saw Morse. Her expression lightened and she gave him a small smile. 

“Anything?” Trewlove asked, stepping back from the glass board she’d been placing the victims’ photos on, setting up an effective visual timeline. She caught him looking at her oddly and half shrugged, smiling again. “Inspector Thursday’s on his way back, he dropped me here before heading home for a moment, said he’d forgotten something. I just thought I’d put everything up, try and get ourselves organized.”

Morse nodded and looked across the faces that had become familiar over the past two years, feeling an increasing sense of dread as he made his way down the sequence. A small, nagging part of him said that it was only a matter of time before there was another face on the board. 

“So, any luck with Felicity’s flatmate?”

“Best friend, apparently.” Morse rubbed the back of his neck and moved to lean against the nearest desk, Trewlove remaining standing, watching him. “She didn’t have much to say beyond the fact that Felicity was very reserved and liked to have a close circle. I’m guessing that Thursday will come back with similar comments from the parents. Varley was much the same, as was Abbott. Cleary is the outlier.”

Trewlove tilted her head. “In what way?”

Morse sighed. “Enid was outgoing and conversational, according to her employer. She worked at a cafe by the Covered Market, studied botany at the colleges. Mature for her age, came from money, lived with a friend in a decent place. She would have been missed. All of them were missed. Even Abbott’s sister-”

He broke off and hung his head, staring down at his shoes, overcome by the sharp, bright burst of a memory flaring behind his retinas. The image of Lillian Abbott fighting with Jakes, insisting with a red face and teary eyes that her Josie would never have left without telling her, that she wouldn’t worry her like that. Never. Morse was the only one that would listen to her. But it wasn’t enough. 

“Inspector Thursday told me about Josie Abbott.” Trewlove said lightly, her tone soft. “It wasn’t your fault, Morse.”

“But if I’d just convinced them-”

“You had no evidence.” she shook her head. “It was all circumstantial. Two victims a year apart who happened to look alike would seem like coincidence to anyone.”

_ Coincidence.  _ He was growing sick of the word. 

“Did he tell you I looked for her?” Morse looked up at her before glancing back to the board, catching a glimpse of the photos from the scene at Addison’s Walk, the path, the brush, the river. “That I was up half the night, driving, walking,  _ looking  _ for them, thinking I’d catch him in the act? I was out there and I still missed him. I had a whole year to work the case and it’s been wasted.”

Trewlove stared. “Morse, you honestly can’t blame yourself for that. You were in prison- yes, I know, people do talk and I’ve seen the papers- and that ordeal with the opera killer, Mason Gull- that was  _ months  _ ago. The Crevecoeur tiger, the bank robbery, it’s been madness. This case- it’s not your burden to bear.”

“Isn’t it?”

Trewlove wasn’t able to respond because Thursday chose that moment to walk through the doors, removing his hat as he did so. Strange was in tow, talking in a low voice, but the inspector seemed to be only half listening. 

Once he caught sight of Morse and Trewlove he gave them both a nod, holding his hat out to gesture toward Morse in particular. “You’ve got a friend of yours downstairs, Morse, I asked if he wanted to come up but he said he’d wait for you.”

“A friend? I don’t-” Morse began, but Thursday raised an eyebrow.

“Might want to tell him that, then.” Thursday turned to head toward his office without another word.

Morse frowned and pushed himself off the desk, following him. “Sir? Anything from the inquiries?”

The inspector stopped in the doorway to his office, turning so he could address the three as he closed his eyes, seeming a bit worn, his breathing off. His hand seemed to be drifting toward his pocket but he stopped himself once he noticed. “The Thorpes have alibis. No motives. Mrs. Thorpe is confined to a wheelchair, something to do with her heart. Her general health is off, has been for months now. Felicity and Hazel have been best of friends for years, practically inseparable. She likes a close circle, apparently not the most outgoing type. We’ll start looking into people she may have interacted with recently, meaning Miss Ashenhurst will have to come in again.”

“I promised we’d bring her home safe.” Morse said suddenly. “Felicity, I mean.”

Thursday’s head snapped up, eyes wide, staring harshly. “What’d you go and do that for?”

“Well we are, aren’t we?” Morse raised a testing eyebrow.

Thursday went to sit at his desk, rummaging in his coat pockets for his pipe, his movements agitated. “Morse, we don’t know that for sure. Close the door, would you?”

Morse followed him into the office and glanced over his shoulder to see Strange watching him, a question on his face.  _ Damn you and your dinner date,  _ he thought to himself, turning away sharply before he started to glare. Strange could be  _ helping.  _ Morse closed the door and moved to stand in front of the desk, watching Thursday curiously. Something had been off with him ever since he walked through the door, and he seemed awfully keen in getting to his office. 

“Sir, is everything alright?” Morse ventured carefully, toeing a boundary that he was unable to see. His curiosity was slowly verging on mild concern. “Constable Trewlove said you had to stop at home.”

Thursday’s steely eyes narrowed. “You’d do best to mind your own affairs.”

“It becomes my affair when you’re avoiding talking about the case at hand!” Morse retorted, flushing and quickly adding, “Sir.” 

“Dammit, Morse.” Thursday swore and withdrew his hand from his pocket, slamming a small glass bottle on the table so hard Morse almost feared it would break, but it didn’t. Instead, the small white capsules within rattled against the sides irritably. “Pills! I went to get my bloody pills. I coughed up a blasted bullet a few weeks ago and it’s not been without consequence. I’m meant to take these every day and I forgot them this morning.”

Morse stared at the bottle, shame crawling up his neck, burning. “Sir, I-”

Thursday sighed and shook his head, broad shoulders slumping. He unscrewed the cap and shook a few pills into his hand, reaching for the nearest glass and pouring some water from the carafe, downing the pills quickly. “Don’t apologize. You weren’t to know. We’re pressed for time and I didn’t want to worry anyone with this.” He stopped, considering something before facing Morse, nodding his head towards the door. “Well? Go on, then, you’ve got someone waiting for you. Take an hour, get something to eat, we’ll regroup when everyone’s heads are clear, take another go at the old files.” Upon seeing Morse’s hesitation, he sighed again. “That’s an order, constable.”

“Sir.” Morse nodded once and headed toward the door.

“Oh, and Morse?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Not a word of this to anyone.” Thursday gestured to the medication. “Understood?”

Morse nodded wordlessly and closed the door behind him. He gathered his coat back up and headed to the stairs, already suspecting who was at the bottom waiting for him, and he felt a strange fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a head of wavy hair belonging to a man dressed rather casually in dark slacks and a light sweater, denim jacket slung over his arm. 

“Gael?”

Gael Edwards turned and caught Morse just as he descended the last few steps, skirting around a passing officer to get to him. The man broke into a broad smile but he shifted on his feet a bit, betraying a bit of unease. “Been a while since I’ve been in a police station of my own accord. Your lot aren’t very fond of my sort.”

“What, activists?” Morse half remembered something Gael had once said about being arrested in America after being involved with the freedom rides in the south. “Liberals?”

Gael took a moment, scratching his neck. “You could say that.”

“Should I be offended?” Morse quirked a small smile in response.

Gael snorted, shaking his head. “You’re an exception to the rule, always have been.”

“Again, should I be offended?”

“You never can tell when I’m complimenting you.” Gael accused, grinning. The smile began to waver as he looked Morse over with something in his eyes that looked like worry. It was a familiar expression on the nurse’s face as of late and Morse could only blame himself for putting it there. After all, it was usually directed toward him, unjustly so. He wasn’t worth getting worried over, yet there was Gael time and time again, answering the phone at the oddest of hours and meeting for drinks or just conversation. 

_ Morse could remember the most recent time like it was only yesterday. Only, he hadn’t called him.  _

_ Joan had just left. He’d gone after her with no plan in his mind, no expectation of her answering the door and him declaring his love, no expectation of reciprocation, not even a few words on the threshold. He didn’t know what he expected to happen when he saw her. _

_ But he hadn’t expected the suitcase and train ticket.  _

_ Morse told the Thursdays as much as he knew, saying he couldn’t stop her, she’d made her mind up, and it was clear they didn’t blame him despite his own opinions on that matter. He set off back to his basement flat, his mind a mess of confusion, anger, and distress, body aching and head pulsing with a residual headache from the sound of gunfire and the strike to the face. Joan had told him to put something on the injury. But he couldn’t think to do that, not when there was a greater wound within him, something that plaster or salve couldn’t soothe or heal.  _

_ How long had he loved her? He’d never even given it any thought until that moment of bizarre introspection after the bank. Did he love her? Or was she just another one of those unattainable figures he was prone to torturing himself with, knowing he could never have them? Wasn’t it always the case? The second he let himself believe things would be alright, everything would go to hell and beyond.  _

_ He’d barely reached for the bottle of whisky he kept on the shelf when a knock sounded on his front door, the slim shadow of a person stretching across his curtains. Heart twisting, some small part of him thinking- hoping- it was Joan, that she’d come round, seen sense and returned- but when he threw open the door, it wasn’t her. The blue eyes that met his weren’t hers, they met his gaze at the same height as his own.  _

_ It wasn’t Joan Thursday.  _

_ It was Gael Edwards.  _

_ “Evening, Morse.” Gael smiled softly, adjusting his grip on the strap of a small shoulder bag, his pale skin gaining a faint bluish hue in the moonlight. “Mind if I come in?” _

_ Morse stepped aside and let him enter, not even thinking to apologize for the slight disorganization or the dismal nature of his accommodations. Instead, he sank heavily into the nearest armchair and Gael shut the door behind him, making his way over to Morse and pulling the other chair close, so close their knees were touching.  _

_ “Frazil?” Morse guessed, the name barely a whisper, his voice rough with choked back tears.  _

_ “Thursday.” Gael answered, undoing the clasps of his bag and pulling out a small medical kit, fishing out cotton swabs and small bottles with practised efficiency. He soaked one of the swabs with peroxide and reached his other hand up to steady Morse’s face, his thumb hooking under his chin to angle it to the side. There was something so reassuring about the steady warmth of his hand that Morse all but melted into the touch, jolted from the brief moment of reverie as the peroxide stung the cut on his face and he drew in a sharp hiss of pain. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” _

_ “It’s alright.” Morse closed his eyes, allowing Gael to continue putting ointment on the wound and eventually a small plaster.  _

_ Gael drew back, his hand falling away, and Morse opened his eyes, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Do you want to talk about it?” _

_ “I don’t want to talk about her- it-” Morse corrected himself but he’d already slipped up. He buried his face in his hands before Gael could see the tears slice down his cheeks, hunching forward in his seat in hopes of making himself small enough to disappear.  _

_ It took less than a moment for Gael to tug him into an embrace, one made awkward by their positioning, but an embrace nonetheless, one hand on his back rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers tangling in his unruly hair. That was something Morse noticed about Gael early on. He wasn’t afraid of touch, not with anyone. His coworkers, the sick, the injured, the dying, Morse. It wasn’t bad. In fact, he rather liked it, not that he’d ever admit it, least of all to himself.  _

_ “You can tell me, you know. I’m not going to judge.” _

_ Morse almost snorted but it came out as a cough, and he mumbled through his hands. “What are you, my confessor?” _

_ He felt, rather than saw Gael shake his head. “No, I’m your friend. I have been for quite some time, you’ve just been too stubborn to notice.” There was a teasing edge to his voice that settled Morse’s nerves and he pulled back, Gael catching on and releasing him.  _

_ “I’m sorry.” Morse wiped at his eyes, his face warm with something akin to embarrassment.  _

_ Gael looked at him sadly. “You don’t have to apologize, Morse, I just- I want-” he wrung his hands and looked away. Morse waited for him to finish the sentence, to say what it was that he wanted, but it never came. The bottle of whisky caught Gael’s eye and he stood, replacing it to a higher shelf. “How about I fix us a cuppa?” _

_ “You don’t have to stay.” _

_ “I’ll stay as long as you want me around.” _

_ Morse closed his eyes once again and settled back into the armchair, deciding that he wasn’t up for a fight, giving in to the need that was clawing in his chest, screaming that he didn’t want to be alone just then. “In that case I think I’ll take that cup of tea.” _

And there Gael was again, still looking worried. 

“You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping.” he noted, studying Morse’s face.

Morse ducked his head a bit, mostly so Gael could stop looking. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aside from there being a missing girl and only two days left to find her alive? Yes, I am.” Morse’s voice rose before he could notice and he shook his head, sighing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine, Morse,” Gael gave him a reassuring smile, something Morse only noticed after a hand on his arm caused him to look up. “At least now I know why you forgot about lunch.”

_ Right.  _ Morse ran a hand down his face. He’d stopped by the hospital only yesterday so see Gael on his break, but there was a flu spreading through the wards so things were a bit hectic and they had to reschedule- to now. 

“If it’s a bad time-” Gael looked down the hall to the door, beginning to shift away, but Morse forced himself to make the split second decision to shake his head.

“No! No, it’s- now’s fine.” Morse insisted, feeling a bit guilty since he did want to go but he’d be losing time thinking about the case. But that was what Thursday wanted. An hour to recover and restart. He could do that. “I’m just afraid I’ll be bad company with all that’s on my mind.”

Gael’s face brightened and he laughed, drawing a smile from Morse. “You? Never. Come on then, I’m buying- and no, we’re not having this argument again!”

\------

They did have that argument again, but it was substantially shorter than the previous few times, especially since Morse discovered that Gael was practically as stubborn as he was. 

Gael had done his utmost to steer Morse away from the pubs despite his rather weak claims that alcohol was “brain food”. Gael’s exact response was something along the lines of “You didn’t think that would work on a nurse, did you?”. A compromise had to be reached, which ended up being the cafe around the corner that Morse had met Dorothea Frazil- and eventually Gael- at a few weeks after the Mason Gull incident. It was nice, the consistency of it. They usually sat in the corner by the window, one of the only bits where there were coloured bits of glass tile set into it, so when the sun decided to show its face it caused the colours to stretch across the table. Morse had watched Gael’s face transform into a mosaic of light greens, blues, pinks, and yellows many times over. It was incredibly distracting, to say the least. Beautiful, yes, but distracting. 

“So,” Gael said once their plates had been cleared and cups of tea poured. “Tell me about this case of yours that's keeping you up at night.” 

Morse curled his hands around the steaming cup in front of him and opened up about the investigation, providing an incredibly abridged version of events, but omitting the most recent nightmare. It wasn’t something worth sharing. It didn’t need to be spoken, it needed to be buried. He watched the colours unfold across the other man’s features as he talked, but eventually clouds overtook the sun and they faded, but Morse didn’t peel his eyes away until he felt he was staring too much and flicked his gaze down to the table, his neck feeling a bit warm. 

“I’ll likely need to speak to Edmund Varley again about his daughter, Tessa, seeing as she was the first.” Morse took a sip of his tea before it could get too cold. “He shows up to my choral concerts on occasion. Tessa was part of her church choir, but he’s a pagan himself, and I think he chose mine for a reason.”

Gael’s brow furrowed. “What reason?”

“I think he’s afraid I’ll give up or forget,” Morse tugged at his ear out of habit. “So he makes sure I see his face from time to time to help me remember her.”

“When did this start?”

Morse thought for a moment. “Shortly after the last murder. That was when I first met him. I wasn’t permitted to before we had a case. He told me about Tessa’s singing and apparently remembered my name from an article Miss Frazil did on TOSCA. He’s been showing up ever since.”

Gael leaned back in his seat, folding his arms. “Morse, call me paranoid, but that sounds a bit like stalking.” 

“It’s not like that.” Morse scoffed lightly. “Mr. Varley’s harmless. He’s there and gone, never says a word. But I do intend to speak to him after tonight’s performance.”

“You have a concert tonight?” Gael raised an eyebrow, looking surprised. “You didn’t say.”

“I forgot.” Morse said honestly, feeling foolish yet again at his recent lapses with memory.  _ Add it to the list.  _ “I meant to invite you, it just slipped my mind with everything-”

“Morse,” Gael said softly, stopping him. “What have I said about apologizing? It’s alright, honestly. Better late than never, you know?”

Morse snorted and lifted his tea cup again, but his movement was stilled as a figure seemed to be getting closer in his peripheral vision. Gael turned his head and a grin broke out across his face, greeting the newcomer before Morse even had a chance to look.

“Hullo, Max!”

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Dr. DeBryn tipped his hat and drew up another chair to the table, resting his satchel on his lap, addressing Morse with a smile. “I’m terribly sorry to have inflicted Nurse Edwards on you all those months ago, Morse. It appears he’s latched on and taken a liking to you, which, in my defense, was not anticipated. Blink twice if you need rescuing, detective, and I shall do my utmost.”

Morse chuckled. 

“Very funny, doctor.” Gael drank his tea, draining half the cup and setting it down. “If this is about the case I can-”

Morse opened his mouth to say something encouraging him to stay but DeBryn beat him to the chase, waving his hand and indicating he remain seated. “You’re alright, Edwards, I’ll only be a few moments. I was on my way to the station to drop off the autopsy reports from the previous murders when I thought I saw you two through the window. Saves myself a bit of a walk from the bus.”

“What’s happened to your car?” Morse inquired.

“Time,” DeBryn pronounced, like it was the world’s shortest autopsy. “It needed an oil change and this afternoon was most convenient. Inspector Thursday rang this morning and asked me to pull the files, so naturally I gave them another look through, and I found some things that might be of interest to you.”

Morse leaned forward as the pathologist withdrew three folders from his bag, placing them on the table and flipping the top one open, its tab marked ‘Varley, T’. 

“Water samples were taken from the lungs of each victim,” Debryn explained. “I ran them for analysis, just to be certain they died where they were found. Diatom analysis between samples from the lungs of Cleary and Abbott and stretches of river they were found by was all very consistent. I never found the difference with Varley until now because I wasn’t the pathologist on duty when they found her body. I took a trip north to do some trout fishing before the season ended. Anyway, the point is that the water she drowned in contained fluoride.”

“Fluoride?” Gael frowned, looking between the two. “Like in drinking water?”

DeBryn nodded. “Precisely. My guess is that Theresa Varley was either drowned in a tub or basin filled with tap water. I’d reason tub is more likely, seeing as there were also traces of alkylbenzenes, potassium fatty acids, and the like.”

This was met with blank stares from both younger men.

The doctor sighed. “Soap, gentlemen. Or some form of detergent. So, when you get soap and fluoride together-”

“Bathwater.” Morse said abruptly. He blinked, the confusion setting in, and he sat back in his seat, frowning. “You’re saying she drowned in a bath and was placed by the river?”

“A gold star for your warrant card, detective,” DeBryn quipped, flipping the page. “Another observation was the nature of the drugs used on her. Going off the toxicology report, the victim had a fair amount of opiates in her system when she died. Codeine, to be exact. This feature is shared with the others. But it’s the bruising patterns that aren’t entirely consistent. There were clear lividity marks on Varley and Abbott, indicating they fought their attacker. He readjusted his grip on Varley’s arms and neck several times, but Abbott’s injuries are assumed to be sustained as she fought against being drugged, as seen by the needle marks. Cleary’s toxicology report showed that she had far more drugs in her system than the other two, and the least amount of water. The codeine had slowed her respiration so much that she was barely breathing when she went in the water.”

“Poor girl didn’t know what hit her.” Gael ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes.

“It was probably better that way.” DeBryn admitted kindly. “Saved her from the terror.”

“Do you think a woman could have done this?” Morse asked as DeBryn closed the file and handed the small stack over. The earlier train of thought resurfaced, fueled by DeBryn’s observations. “The repeated bruising on Varley could mean her killer wasn’t quite strong enough to keep her down unless she was drugged like Cleary. It would have been easier to drown these younger people if they were sedated.”

DeBryn shook his head. “The hand imprints were too large for a woman, and if I recall correctly, there were men’s shoe prints at the Cleary scene. If anything you’re most likely looking for a weak man, lacking strength either from age or illness.”

“Unless he wants them sedated.” Gael pointed out. “You said it yourself, Max, it saved her from the terror. What if he doesn’t want his victims to suffer? Compassionate killers, you see it sometimes, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. The doses aren’t consistent because he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He’s guessing, and it’s been trial and error.”

“If that’s true, the drugs serve a dual purpose.” Morse reasoned. “They also make sure the women don’t put up much of a fight when he’s drowning them in the river, that way they aren’t noticed. They could cry out or escape otherwise. If that was such a concern, he’d keep drowning them in the bath like Varley, but he doesn’t. It’s important to him.  _ They’re  _ important to him.”

It was all too clear that the victims represented someone. A very specific someone, another young woman they all resembled. It wasn’t someone the killer loathed nor someone he desired- there was no interference of that sort. It was something they all feared but never found. 

Gael’s comment stuck with him. What if they truly weren’t meant to suffer? What if, in his own sick, twisted way, the murderer actually  _ cared  _ for them? Because he cared for the person they represented? Someone who was, maybe, still alive and out there? 

A young woman with dark hair, fair skin, and blue eyes-

_ No.  _ Morse thought.  _ Not blue. Brown. Hazel.  _

_ Who had blue eyes? _

Morse looked down at his watch, seeing that the hour was drawing near. He gathered up his coat and the files, pushing his chair in. “I’d better get back, tell Inspector Thursday what you’ve found. Thank you, DeBryn. And thank you for lunch, Gael. I suppose I’ll be seeing you at the concert at seven?”

Gael smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

DeBryn held his hand out to shake. “Do send Thursday my best.” He suddenly looked uncomfortable, holding on to Morse’s hand for a second longer. “How is he? Is there any word on-?”

_ Any word on Joan,  _ Morse filled in the blanks.  _ Dark haired, fair skinned, blue eyed Joan. God, how was he meant to prevent this murder when he couldn’t even get straight which woman he was meant to be looking for? _

Morse tugged his hand away, clearing his throat as he felt a lump begin to form, his eyes flitting away from him. A familiar ache bloomed in his chest and he tried to quell it. “No. There’s been no word on Miss Thursday.”

Gael was wordless, turning and staring out of the window, eyes fixed on nothing, his own throat bobbing. 

_ Dark haired, fair skinned, blue eyed Gael.  _

_ No,  _ he warned himself.  _ Don’t do that to him. _

He deserved more than to be a surrogate, but in that moment Morse couldn’t tell if that’s what he’d unintentionally done. If that was what he wanted from Gael. 

_ What if he never figured it out? _

All he knew was that Gael had been there when he needed him, and he’d let him stay. Given the way Morse was, that had to count for something. He let Gael stay. He wanted him there. Him. Not Joan. 

Morse wondered why the mention of her had struck the nurse in such a way. After all, it wasn’t as if he  _ knew  _ her. He only knew of her as Thursday’s daughter, knew of her from Morse the night she left. 

Still, all emotion had been wiped clean from his face, leaving a blank, cold slate that, upon seeing it, made Morse feel like there was a knife being gradually twisted in his chest. The pain only ebbed when he looked away from the man, fading into the dull ache once again. 

_ What was that? _

DeBryn coughed, clearly sensing the change in atmosphere was due to him. “Well, you’d better get on, then, Morse.  _ Audentis fortuna iuvat. _ ”

_ Fortune favours the brave.  _

Morse could have laughed. Instead he left, hoping the hollow ache behind his ribs would stay behind. 

Naturally, it only tightened around his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oblivious Morse is oblivious. Sorry for the Gael/Morse angst, I swear things will get better for them in the future, honest.


	3. Orpheus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old ghosts are dragged into the candle light. Morse goes to his concert in hopes of meeting with Edmund Varley and is forced to confront troubling memories. As the night goes on, Gael becomes concerned for Morse's health, forcing him to question his own infallibility when it comes to this case.

Morse walked through the doors of St. Alfredus College wondering how on earth he would be able to keep his hands from shaking when holding his sheet music. He knew his lines backwards and forwards but for the sake of those who didn’t, all the singers had to at least be holding their booklets. It wasn’t the concert at all that was sending his nerves into a tangled panic, but the thought of the man that would be watching his every move the entire time. 

Edmund Varley was the furthest thing from imposing. Morse put his age somewhere north of forty, but he wore his years and grief like sandbags that dragged his shoulders down and stuck his feet to the ground, inducing a sort of sedate shuffle that was accented by a slight limp. Varley had only ever been a suspect on paper. Once he came into the station with his disheveled light hair shot through with grey, his rumpled cardigan and slept in clothes, left leg staggering slightly, a look had been exchanged between the officers. Jakes, who had still been with them at the time, just stared from the corner he’d tucked himself into, cigarette burning out between his thin fingers. 

_ Him? Really?  _

Varley had been handsome once, and still slightly was, but he had neglected in taking care of himself in the years after his daughter’s murder. His amber eyes seemed unable to settle on something for much longer than a few moments, a slight vacancy haunting his expression. He looked like a man that had been hollowed out inside and still wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Something about him shouted  _ lost _ . 

It almost seemed foolish to have forced him up all the stairs to the interrogation room, and Morse had felt the back of his neck warm with embarrassment.  _ They’d got it wrong.  _

Still, they asked the routine questions, wheedling answers from him and half reliable, stale memories of a confusing night nearly three years past. Varley claimed that he’d been home with his youngest daughter that night, helping with schoolwork. When Tessa didn’t come back from her job on time he assumed she’d gone over to her boyfriend’s. 

The next day, her body was found on the banks of the river, only metres away from the walking path. 

Grasping for who knew what, Strange asked what happened to Varley’s leg. The man seemed nonplussed, but hiked up the leg of his trousers anyway to display a hideous gash of a scar, the skin around it twisted and warped from an awkward healing process. Some sort of construction accident when he was building the greenhouse in his yard. There’d been nerve damage. 

That put an end to things rather quickly, and Strange ushered him out of the interrogation room. 

_ “I know you, don’t I?” Varley had stalled in the doorway, looking back at Morse, his focus wandering over to the detective. “I’ve seen your face in the papers. You’re a singer, aren’t you?” _

_ “One likes to think so.” Morse replied after a moment of uncertainty. _

_ Varley’s eyes shifted to rest on a very uncompelling piece of wall. “Tessa loved to sing. Perhaps you two would have met. In another life.” _

_ With that final, ambiguous note, he let himself be escorted out.  _

The next week, Morse saw him at his concert. 

He had no doubt that Varley would be present tonight. Ms. Frazil had been told to put Felicity Thorpe’s details in the afternoon paper and it was likely that Varley would have seen her photo and drawn the same conclusion Morse had. He would make the connection to his daughter and seek Morse out. 

Even without that incentive, Morse knew he would attend the concert. It was the final one of the season and the director had decided to take advantage of Samhain’s proximity, slipping in a few seasonally appropriate songs into the list among those of their usual type. They would begin the show with Bach’s  _ Lobet den Herrn alle Heiden  _ and finish with the finale from the first act of  _ Orph _ _ é _ _ e aux Enfers,  _ or  _ Orpheus in the Underworld.  _ Someone had apparently decided they needed to go all out on Halloween and harvest themed decor since the walking path lined with lanterns that collectively cut into the dimness of the late afternoon. Morse watched his lengthy shadow slant in the candlelight and follow him into the hall like a bizarre guardian that could not be shaken off. He caught the door for an alto he vaguely recognized as being named Mariella Something-or-other and she smiled in thanks, ducking through with him following. 

The decorations had expanded into the hall with miniature pumpkins lining the edge of the stands, sconces lit, and candelabras donning shawls of artificial cobwebs that one of the older baritones was picking at with obvious distaste. An upper window was propped open to promote ventilation, allowing an errant draught of cool air to sneak inside. The rich, dark wood seemed darker still in the candlelight, and the atmosphere seemed to hold a certain glow to it. The melodic hum from the choir warming up gave a weighty sort of ambiance that dizzied the senses and gave a feeling of- otherworldliness. Morse wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, looking around with more interest than he’d intended. It was half marvelous, half unsettling. But then again, wasn’t that the point of a holiday that celebrated fears and the dead? 

He’d never liked this time of year, even as a boy. His father would grumble up a storm about the pagan celebrators, putting the entire household in a mood, making Gwen even more of a witch than usual. On Michaelmas, Cyril would drag his son to church as if it wasn’t his birthday, as if his mother hadn’t raised him a Quaker, as if somehow he could put the fear of God in his child with all his Bible passages and threats of divine punishment. 

_ “I can’t be afraid of something I don’t believe in, sir.”  _

_ That _ had gotten him a belting. But it didn’t change the fact that Morse could never place his faith in imaginary men in the sky. Hell, it was difficult to put faith in men on the earth, why’d they have to go looking for one above? It didn’t make sense. 

Distancing himself from his family had made the season tolerable, but once he became a policeman it returned to its former state. Something about this time of year brought out a strangeness in people. Didn’t matter if you were religious or not. Call it the full moon, mischief night, the balancing spirit world, anything. There was something about it. 

That something was driving a man to kill. 

An usher handed Morse a slim black folder with gold stenciling and waved him toward the stands as if they hadn’t done the same routine for years and years and Morse still didn’t know the way. The gesture was well meaning but absurd nonetheless, he noted, taking his place in the half filled box. He adjusted his black bow tie and began sifting through the sheet music to give himself something to do as the earliest audience members and latest fellow choir people began shuffling in, the air soon awash with murmurs of praise and anticipation.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Morse turned toward the voice and found the woman from earlier, Mariella, addressing him as she settled into her spot a few spaces down from the baritones. Her toffee coloured skin was positively glowing in the light, the sleek waves of her hair reflecting rather distractingly. 

“It’s… certainly a sight.” Morse said carefully to keep from being too untruthful, wondering how on earth she’d gotten gold on her eyelids. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve spoken before, Miss-?”

“Laurent.” Mariella smiled sweetly, extending a hand to Morse which he shook lightly. “Mariella.”

“Morse.” he replied, smiling back and picking at the gilded edge of the booklet. He didn’t want to look at her eyes anymore.  _ Green,  _ he dimly registered.  _ Thank your lucky stars you didn’t end up with hazel otherwise you might not be standing here.  _

“Morse.” Mariella raised an eyebrow, lips curled playfully. “Is that your given name or surname?”

“Take your pick.” Morse shifted his right shoulder in a half shrug.

She sat back in her seat, looking sideways at him with interest. “I like a challenge.”

Morse blinked, mouth half open with a question, unsure of what she meant by that, but she’d already turned away to talk with one of her friends who’d just sat down. He quickly looked away, face growing warm. 

He made the mistake of glancing up and spotting a familiar face making his way to an open seat on the audience side.

Gael had clearly made an attempt to dress nice for the occasion, wearing a dark blue button down and black tie beneath his coat, hair combed back with uncharacteristic tidiness. Morse caught himself staring but wasn’t able to look away before Gael had spotted him, casting a small wave in his direction. Raising his hand slightly to return the gesture, Morse quickly flitted his eyes away, thankful for the sheet music to give himself something to do. Somehow he doubted that Gael had looked away after he did. 

Several more minutes passed before the director began quieting the audience with a short introductory speech and papers began shuffling, booklets opening to the beginning number. Amid the drone of words, Morse heard the doors creak open, a figure awkwardly slipping through and into the hall, favouring his left leg. The usher guided him to one of the few vacant seats on the audience side, only a few down from Gael. The nurse glanced over at the newcomer, brow furrowing. He looked across to Morse for confirmation, receiving a short nod.

Edmund Varley. 

Morse watched as Gael turned to observe the man, an odd look coming over his face. Something very close to recognition. 

A few sharp taps of the conductor’s baton against the music stand hushed the room, and everyone in the choir stood at the ready. Morse locked his knees to keep from swaying.  _ When had he gotten like this? _

The conductor held his hands steady, waiting. Then, they were going. 

The sopranos opened the first few notes before the altos joined the mix, no single voice distinguishable from the rest. Tenors jumped in, and bass followed soon after. Morse didn’t have to let himself think, giving over to the steady flow of the music, the harmony of voices, unable to even hear his own. It was easy to get lost in it, but the notes paved a clear path to venture down. 

_ Lobet den Herrn alle Heiden. _

_ Praise the Lord, all heathens.  _

Morse’s father would have approved. 

Song after song flew by in an absolute blur. Someone sang an aria rather beautifully. He remembered his lips moving, voice joining the rest, but very little aside. There was a buzzing in the back of his mind brought on by the swirling cacophony of thoughts that didn’t seem to cease. The faces of three dead women danced behind his eyelids, Felicity Thorpe stood on the edge of the river, extending her arm to him, reaching, but was too far away. Not for the first time, Morse wanted to see Theresa Varley before him, wanted to ask her every question that was still unanswered. He could almost conjure her beside him in the stands, picture her eyes shut in peace as she sang alongside Mariella, brilliant voice rippling out above the rest. Trapped in eternal youth. 

_ Who killed you?  _ he would ask Tessa’s ghost.  _ What happened to you that night? _

_ You never came back after work. So where did you go? Who did you see? Rather, who saw  _ you? 

_ The pathologist says you drowned in a bathtub. Whose was it?  _

_ Your father admits he didn’t look for you. Do you blame him?  _

_ Who killed you? Who killed the rest?  _

_ Why won’t this stop? _

They ended the first half on an excerpt from  _ Die erste Walpurgisnacht,  _ a romantic ballad of Druidic pagan rituals. Once the intermission was declared, Morse set his book on the seat behind him and let himself be swept out with the crowd, stumbling through the doors and stepping over the lanterns onto the grass. 

People milled about behind him on the path and courtyard area, the chatter almost unbearable, resonating through his ears. Still, if he walked further off he might miss the call to go back in. 

The headache had subsided to a dull, persistent throbbing, but his head still felt feverishly warm and the cool air did very little to soothe it, but Morse inhaled it deeply, purging his lungs of the sweet candle scented air, gathering the breaths he lost from singing. A fleeting bout of vertigo swept over him and Morse’s hands sought out the nearest wall to balance himself against. The stone rough beneath his uncalloused palms grounded him and he was able to steady his breathing, squeezing his eyes shut against the dizziness. 

Something felt off. He flinched at papercuts and car exhausts firing, but he knew enough to tell that there was something not quite right. 

“Morse, there you are!” 

Gael was bounding over the lanterns and jogging toward Morse, coming to a stop beside him. One hand held his coat while the other went to Morse’s shoulder in a heartbeat. 

“Are you alright?”

Morse started to nod but then caught himself and stopped. “I’m not sure.”

Gael pursed his lips and brought his hand up to Morse’s forehead. The coolness of his skin felt like heaven itself and Morse had to stop himself from sighing, instead closing his eyes for those few moments. “You’re warm.”

“I’m aware,” Morse said reflexively, then winced. “Might be the candles. It’s a bit stuffy in there.”

Gael looked unconvinced, letting his hand fall away. “I think you could be running a fever. You should get that looked at.”

“You don’t count?” Morse was only half joking. He didn’t have the time to go to a physician’s and it wasn’t like the police surgeon would be willing to be bothered for something so trivial. 

Gael chuckled lightly, but there was very little humour behind it. “Still a nurse, Morse. You’ve already got Max playing your personal doctor, and no, he doesn’t count either. Seriously, when’s the last time you’ve seen a doctor for something other than a major injury?”

“The annual police physical exam.” Morse admitted. That, however, had been in the spring. 

Gael shook his head and pulled a pen from his pocket, fishing around further before pulling out a neatly folded receipt, scribbling numbers on the back of it. “Ring the hospital clinic and ask for Dr. Bowen. Tell him I sent you his way and he’ll work in a quick checkup for you.”

“Gael, I can’t-” Morse began protesting but Gael took hold of his nearest hand and tucked the paper into it, folding his fingers closed. 

“You can and will, nurse’s orders.” 

“I don’t have the time right now.” Morse tried to keep the irritation from working its way into his voice. “I just had a bit of a spell, its fine, I’m alright.”

“Morse-”

“I’m fine!”

Gael held his hands up in surrender, eyebrows raised slightly. “Easy there. Not the enemy.”

Morse covered his face and took a deep breath, burning up. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” 

“I know.” Gael sympathized, running a reassuring hand down his arm. “It’s not a great time to be you. But you’re no good to anyone if you’re not in a fit state, least of all to yourself.”

“You’re beginning to sound like the Thursdays.”

“Well they’re very wise people, those Thursdays. I’ll have to send them flowers.”

Morse snorted, smiling wanly. Gael brightened.

“Ready to go back in?” he suggested.

Morse shook his head. “In a moment.” Then, remembering suddenly, “Varley. Do you know him?”

Gael leaned his back against the wall, long legs stretching out in front of him, crossing his arms. Why Morse chose that moment to realize Gael was wearing a shirt a size too small was beyond him. “Know him? I don’t think so. But I remember seeing him in the hospital, I think. This was years back, I was still a bit green, just out of training. Yes, it must’ve been him. I remember that limp of his.”

“He wasn’t in there from his accident?” Morse tugged at his ear, confused. 

“What kind of accident?”

Morse didn’t want to go into the entire pedantics of the greenhouse story. “Construction.”

Gael scratched his chin thoughtfully, trying to remember. “No, it wasn’t that. He was there with a woman- his wife, I took her to be. She was the injured one. I think we lost her, actually. I can’t be certain, it was so long ago.”

A pause. 

“He has two daughters? This Varley character?”

Morse glanced at him, a shock travelling down his spine.  _ Yes.  _ “His eldest was killed a few years back. There’s a younger one, several years her junior.”

“They were there.” Gael nodded affirmatively. “She was holding the little one. I found it strange. Why wasn’t the father holding his children at a time like that? But they didn’t go to him. He was in a world of his own, I thought maybe he had a concussion. Strange fellow, sticks in your head. Poor man.”

Morse hummed in agreement, his mind swirling with this new information. He’d known the mother wasn’t in the picture, that Varley lost her, but now Tessa had entered that scene, standing in the hospital, cradling her little sister as their mother lay dying and their father’s fragile mind began spiraling. Had he truly been that way even before his daughter’s death? Morse always thought that the grief from losing his child in such a way had been the catalyst for his odd behaviour, but what if it had been his wife? 

What had it been like for Tessa to live in that house with a little one to tend to? Did she feel like she’d lost both of her parents that day? What responsibilities did she have to shoulder before she even became an adult?

As much as he wanted her to, Theresa Varley was in no position to answer his questions. It was just her father, but Morse was doubting his capability even more. He’d have to find the man after the show and see what he knew, if there was even something to glean from him.

The usher began calling people back in and Morse turned to Gael, gesturing back toward the path. “Walk you in?”

“How chivalrous.” Gael smiled, following his lead. 

They parted ways inside and Morse took his place in the stands, picking up his book once again. He watched Gael reclaim his seat and Varley reenter, sitting further away at the end. His unnerving amber eyes sought Morse out once more and this time the detective nodded in his direction.  _ Later.  _

That seemed to put the man at ease and he sat back, making himself comfortable. 

The second half of the performance began and Morse found his head slightly clearer for this duration of it, albeit still feeling slightly foggy, like his thoughts had congealed into a thick, unappetizing stew. It would pass soon enough. He just needed to sleep for more than three hours. Preferably without nightmares. 

_ Right, because  _ that  _ was likely.  _

Time slipped by like gossamer, and eventually Morse found himself singing the final notes of the act one finale from  _ Orpheus in the Underworld,  _ the sharp chords of a viola ending it in lieu of the actual full orchestral segment. The audience shot upright immediately, applause flooding the hall. Gael brought his hands up to his mouth and whistled loudly before resuming clapping, a broad smile on his face. Morse flushed and allowed himself to smile in turn. 

Then he saw Varley slipping gracelessly out of his seat and making his way out. Morse waited a few agonizing minutes, suffering through the choir’s collective bow, the director’s promise to see them in December for Christmas recitals, and Mariella Laurent trying to catch his eye over the three people that stood between them. 

Finally, they were permitted to disperse and Morse tore free from the group and bounded outside into the courtyard. It was nighttime now, and the lanterns were in the process of being snuffed out, replaced by the tall lamps that stood at large intervals along the path. Family and friends of choir members milled around, waiting for their loved ones, and Morse peered at every face, trying to find Varley-

“That was a wonderful show, detective,” a low, solemn voice said from his left. 

Morse spun to meet Edmund Varley, the man only inches away. He took a step back and forced a smile, hoping he wasn’t showing how caught off guard he was. “I’m glad you thought so, Mr. Varley.” 

Up close, he could see all the little differences and peculiarities. He’d certainly cleaned up since the last time Morse saw him, freshly shaved, the grey of his hair a little less visible, either from particular combing or dyeing. If anything. Morse would say he looked well, but on further observation he was made to question that assumption. The dark rings under his eyes, half healed nicks from a shaving razor, lines that belonged on the face of someone far older. 

Varley shook his hand briefly. “I saw the paper. That Thorpe girl. It’s the same bloke isn’t it? Same one that took Tessa? He’s back again.”

Morse looked around at all the people nearby. “Let’s take this over here.” he led Varley out of the crowd so they were standing a reasonable distance off to the side, quieter, more private.

“What are you going to do about it?” Varley hissed, strangely lucid. This was not even remotely close to the amount- or deficit- of clarity that clouded the man’s disposition the last time they spoke. “You’re going to catch him, aren’t you?”

“I’m- we’re- we’re trying, Mr. Varley.” Morse tried to placate him. “We’ve got nearly the entire force out looking for the missing girl and the man responsible.”

Varley wrung his hands. “That’s not good enough. What about leads? Do you have any leads? Evidence?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d be able to help with, sir,” Morse finally cut down to the chase. “Your daughter’s death is different than the rest. We think there might be something to it, something that might give away the man who did this. Is there anything you haven’t told us about that night? Anything from the week before? Something to do with her boyfriend, perhaps?’

Varley rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “I don’t know, I can’t-”

“Try.” Morse implored, his tone taking on a bit of an edge. He knew he couldn’t push the man too much but he wasn’t going to coddle him either. Not when there was a life at stake. “Please. For Tessa.”  _ For Felicity. For all of them, goddammit.  _

Ed Varley sighed heavily, waving one of his hands loosely. “I- I need time. It was so long ago, Constable Morse. I need time to remember. I could have something in my diaries, I don’t know. Look, why don’t you stop by my work tomorrow? I’m still running that flower shop in the Covered Market. Perhaps I’ll have jogged my memory by then.”

“What time?” Morse asked, reaching for his notebook which wasn’t there. 

A shrug. “Whenever’s convenient for you. I’ve a wedding order to deal with at two in the afternoon, though, so sometime before then would be preferable. I’ll try my best to be helpful, honestly, but you have to understand that I’ve been spending the last couple of years trying to forget it all.”

Morse nodded amicably. He could definitely understand that. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Thank you.” Varley’s shoulders sagged and he shook Morse’s hand again. “And thank you for not giving up.”

He didn’t know what to do other than take his hand back and nod, departing back toward the mass of people, spotting Gael talking idly with-  _ oh, goodness. _

Of course, it just _ had _ to be Mariella. 

“Hello again, Miss Laurent,” Morse said politely, stowing his hands into his pockets and pretending he wasn’t getting cold standing there without a proper coat on. 

“Mr. Morse,” she smiled, her eyes sparkling, reflecting the light of the lamp they were stood under. “Sorry, I was just talking to your friend here, trying to get some information out of him. It’s like trying to get blood out of a stone, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh-” Morse wasn’t sure of what to say, glancing between the two of them helplessly. Gael seemed slightly amused but it was only a thin veil that disguised his discomfort. “Well-”

“I’ll make this easier,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and produced a pen from her purse, pulling one of Morse’s hands from his pocket before he could protest. Within moments she’d neatly printed her number on the back of his palm, a satisfied smile crossing her face. “Give me a call if you want to see me again before December recitals, yeah?”

“That’s-”  _ That’s quite alright, _ Morse wanted to say, anything at all to dissuade her, but Mariella had already released his hand and taken off toward her friends that were watching nearby, hands poorly hiding their giggles. 

Morse looked down at the numbers on his hand, prodding the ink and finding that it had already dried. 

“She wanted me to give you her number.” Gael said woodenly, staring after her. He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “She saw us talking during the intermission, that’s how she found me.”

“It appears your efforts were in vain,” Morse said wryly, returning his hand to his pocket. “But I appreciate your valiant attempt nonetheless.”

Gael snorted. “Do you know her well?”

“Not in the slightest,” Morse shook his head, beginning walking toward the street. He hadn’t been able to keep the car and ended up taking the bus. There was a stop not far away. “I only just spoke to her for the first time just before the performance.”

“She seems… nice.” Gael supplied. 

Morse scoffed. “Persistent, more like.” 

“Well you’re not much of a chaser yourself,” Gael pushed his shoulder gently, trying for a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Morse said honestly, rubbing his temple. “Maybe it’s just me. Never been good with women.”

They reached the bus stop and sat on a bench by the post. Morse checked his watch and found that one was due to arrive in the next two minutes. That was a relief. 

“What about you?” Morse asked, turning to Gael.

The other man’s head shot around to face him, an odd expression on his face. “What about me?”

“Is there anyone for you?” 

Gael slumped back into the bench, staring off into the street.  _ If he were the type to smoke,  _ Morse thought,  _ he’d be pulling out a cigarette at this moment. _ Instead, Gael took the pen from his pocket and clicked it thoughtfully. 

“There’s someone,” Gael said slowly, as if he were unsure. “But I’m afraid they’re a bit oblivious about it at the moment. And, if I’m wrong about them, it could mean an incredible amount of trouble.”

“She’s not married, is she?” Morse almost felt foolish asking, but it certainly was a valid reason for his trepidation. Only Gael wasn’t the type to go about doing things like dating married women. Jakes, perhaps, once upon a time, if half the stories were true. But not Gael. 

Gael stopped clicking his pen and paused, shaking his head as he smiled mirthlessly at the ground. “Oh, no, I’m afraid it’s much worse than that.” 

The bus arrived and saved Gael from answering the question perched on the edge of Morse’s lips. Instead, he let the conversation fall silent, and another headache began to berate his skull, that same feverish warmth returning. Morse leaned his head against the window and sighed, the cool glass comforting against his forehead. A reflection of Gael’s concerned face appeared in the glass beside his own, warped by the outside surroundings, slowly melding into his own. 

Soon enough, they were the same person. They were one. 

Why that amused him, he had no idea. God, his head hurt. Gael seemed to pick up on the shift in his demeanor, draping his jacket over Morse's shoulders, cold hand tapping his cheek, muffled words falling short of his ears. In the window, the Gael/Morse face was still looking back. Before the strange idea of laughing even fully formed in his mind, Morse could feel his eyes slipping shut, eyelids leaden and insistent on closing. 

The headache blossomed and consumed everything until there was nothing left but darkness and calm. 


	4. Rowan

_ Morse tucked his hands into his pocket, hunching his shoulders forward against the bitter chill of the early morning. It would have been pitch dark had it not been for the lanterns along the gravel path down to the river. The killer had set them there. Must have done. Somehow, Morse knew that. But he’d never done that before though, had he? There was nothing about lanterns in any of the other murders. _

_ Odd. They were just like the lights at the concert.  _

_ No,  _ exactly _ like the concert.  _

_ But the concert hadn’t been out in a park by the river. It was a few days ago. In the evening, not the dead hours of morning when even the sun had not been roused from its celestial slumber. The sky was barely greying on the horizon, like the temples of the steadily ageing. There was no beautiful rosy hue, no indication that daybreak was on its way. This was night just mistakenly labeled as morning.  _

_ The small stones crunched under his shoes and he could see the torches of the coppers by the water, Thursday and Strange’s broad silhouettes cutting into the darkness. Morse shivered and pulled the collar of his coat up tighter around his neck, ignoring the fact that the material was just as cold as the air around it. Gael had been getting on him about buying a scarf as the weather turned, perhaps this time he ought to listen-  _

_ He curled his stiff fingers into fists in his pockets, trying to save some warmth. And gloves. Gloves too. Those would be good right about now.  _

_ “Morning, matey,” Strange turned upon hearing Morse arrive, the frost coated grass crunching rather audibly under his feet.  _

_ “Is it?” Morse replied testily, hugging his arms around his chest to try and warm his midsection.  _

_ “You look half asleep.” Thursday said in a gruff voice, his breath coming out in a visible puff. He took a draw from his pipe, adding a plume of tobacco to the mix. “Sure you’re fit to be out here right now?” _

_ “I need to see her.”  _

_ Thursday gave a firm nod. “Alright, then. Let’s get this over with.” _

_ Morse frowned at that but followed them regardless, trudging down to the riverside where the pathologist was already crouched, satchel by his side, constables holding their torches above him so he could analyse the body they’d pulled from the river.  _

_ “Who found her?” Morse asked as they drew nearer. He could just make out the back of Trewlove’s head as she peered over DeBryn’s shoulder.  _

_ “Dunno,” Strange shrugged. “Anonymous call came in to nights, we were told immediately.” _

_ “Do the Thorpes know?” That their daughter is dead? That we failed? “Have they been notified?” _

_ The sergeant shook his head. “Can’t do until DeBryn’s confirmed it.” _

_ Morse would have gaped had it not meant inhaling more of the sharp air than he had to. “But it’s clearly-!” _

_ “It isn’t.” Trewlove interjected, meeting them just a few paces away from the water. “I didn’t see his face, but it’s a man. It’s not Felicity.” _

_ He stared, arms falling to his sides. “What?” _

_ “It’s not her, Morse.” Trewlove said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but-” _

_ “No, you’re mistaken,” Morse said sharply, eyes darting around at the faces of the other officers as if they would confirm this. “It’s the day after the equinox, it’s-” _

_ “Morse-” _

_ “It’s Thorpe!” Morse pushed past them and stormed toward DeBryn, but the pathologist caught sight of him and his eyes flew wide open in- fear? _

_ “Inspector, hold him back!” DeBryn barked, grabbing Morse by the shoulders and pushing him away. “Morse, you mustn’t see-” _

_ “I need to know!” he tore himself free before Thursday or Strange could descend on him, hurrying to the edge of the water. He had to know, he had to- _

_ Morse’s gaze fell to the body lying prone in the muddy riverbank, limbs bent at unnatural angles, made still by death. It was invariably a man, just as Trewlove said. His skin had turned alabaster and verged on bluing, but perhaps that was just a trick of the light. Purple bruises mottled his wrists, sleeve rolled up to reveal stark red puncture marks, like they’d only just happened. Bruises all the way up to his throat and his face- _

_ Gael.  _

_ It was Gael.  _

_ His eyes were clouded, no longer their familiar pristine blue. Dull. Unseeing.  _

_ Dead.  _

_ Morse fell to his knees, a guttural moan escaping his lips. “No, no, please, no-” _

_ There was a raspy inhale of breath and Morse watched, transfixed by horror as Gael drew breath, head rolling to face him, those clouded, dead eyes fixing on him. _

_ “You… could have… saved…me…” _

_ And he went still for the last time.  _

Morse bolted awake with a small cry, moving so fast that he fell off his bed. His palms struck the cold floor and held him up for a brief moment before he collapsed onto his chest, curling onto his side and gasping for breath that didn’t seem to come. 

He wasn’t sure how long it took, seconds or minutes before the hammering of his heart slowed down to a more manageable pace and he didn’t feel as if he was about to keel over from the shock of  _ Gael.  _

_ It was just a nightmare. Nothing more.  _

A bead of sweat threatened to fall into his eye and he slowly brushed it away, feeling the cold, clamminess of his forehead and his hair plastered to it. The front of his shirt was all but soaked through and Morse used the nightstand to pull himself into a sitting position, pulling the damp clothes off. 

Morse had no recollection of falling asleep or even getting back to his flat. He was still dressed in his suit from the night before, the familiar surroundings of his flat blurred to his newly opened eyes. Stifling a groan, Morse eased himself to his feet, glancing over at the clock on his nightstand. A small shock traveled down his spine as he realized it was nearly ten minutes past his usual wake-up time. Clearly he’d been too disoriented last night to remember to set his alarm.

_ What happened? _

He was starting to understand how some drunkards felt, searching for clues to give them some idea as to what they’d gotten up to the night before. Retracing his footsteps, as it were. Morse got to his feet and quickly began to change, folding his evening suit over the bed and dressing in his usual work attire, searching around for his warrant card, notebook, and pen, thankful that they were where he left them before heading to the concert. 

Concert. Yes, he remembered that. There was the concert, Varley, Tessa-

No, not Tessa. Just a ghostly vision conjured in the candlelight. 

Gael had been there, Morse remembered, washing up and trying to restore some feeling of normalcy with his small morning routine. Gael was at the concert. Gael was with him on the bus. He must have made sure that Morse got home.

He was struck with the odd urge to call him and make sure he was fine. But what was he supposed to say?  _ ‘Hello Gael, so sorry to bother you at work where you’re dealing with the sick and injured who are in dire need of your help but I had a dream you were dead so I just wanted to make sure you weren’t’? _ Laughable was what it was. Borderline insane. Gael was just fine, he’d seen him just last night. They boarded the bus together. That was the last thing Morse realized he remembered with any modicum of clarity. They got on the bus shortly after speaking with Mariella-

Morse looked down at his hand that he’d been unwittingly scrubbing at with the soap, finding that all but the first two digits of the phone number that she’d written were washed away. 

He was surprised at how little he minded. 

As Morse readied, movement outside of his window drew his attention and he looked up in time to see a small, dark shape moving beyond the curtain covered glass. Probably the cat that enjoyed loitering on the steps and tripping him up whenever he came back too late, missing it in the dark. 

One of the neighbours was in the habit of putting milk out for it and perhaps it was expecting the same tribute from Morse. Unless the cat liked Earl Grey or cheap Scotch, however, it was sorely out of luck. 

After a few more minutes, Morse was out of the door and hurrying toward the bus stop, just in time to board the one headed toward the station. He picked up the car and headed to Thursday’s house, distinctly feeling as if he was missing something. The past ten or so hours, for starters. 

The sky was a continuous sheet of grey, disrupted only by the odd patch of darker clouds that preceded rainfall. If not today, tomorrow, then. 

Tomorrow. The day Felicity Thorpe would die. 

He slumped in his seat as he parked the car along the kerb in front of the Thursday residence, feeling a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. 

A new headache began tapping at the edges of his mind, then let itself in. 

\------

Thursday had gone off to talk to the Thorpes again while Trewlove and Strange sought out DeBryn, hoping to find clues in what pitiful amount of evidence they had. Apparently there was a rumour circulating about exhuming Enid Cleary or Josephine Abbott, a fire which Dorothea Frazil was tasked with rapidly quenching by the time the afternoon edition came around. That left Morse to keep his appointment with Tessa Varley’s father. 

Edmund Varley’s shop was not merely a florist’s, Morse noticed upon arriving a few hours later at the small place tucked between a cobbler and perfumier’s, but also an apothecary. 

A small bell chimed as he pushed the door open and the smell of incense hit Morse immediately, the air accented with the scent of at least half a dozen herbs that he couldn’t possibly attribute names to. Wisps of the herbal smoke wove around the small jars and vials stocked on the shelves up against the walls, floating over the buckets of bushels of flowers, both potted and cut, covering most of the floor and table space. 

Harvest themed items were stocked around, bushels of hand picked apples grouped together with boughs of cinnamon sticks and miniature pumpkins and gourds, all likely produced from Varley’s own garden and greenhouse. 

The smoke began to remind him of the candles at the concert and his stomach rolled. 

Morse hadn’t expected the place to be as lively as it was. There was a young man at the till writing- no,  _ sketching-  _ in a journal. A handful of customers were milling around, young women eyeing some items that promised themselves to be hair tonics, an elderly gentleman picking out various colours of carnations, and a woman examining a bottle of what the label on the shelf said was something for the heart. Morse was struck with a ridiculous image of witches brewing potions over a cauldron, the three from  _ Macbeth _ appearing in his mind.  _ Double, double, toil and trouble- _

“Hawthorn berries aid in expanding the coronary arteries, improves blood flow.” a voice came from too close behind Morse. “Do you have issues with your heart, constable?”

_ Too close,  _ Morse’s internal voice hollered, recalling the same proximity after the concert. This seemed to be a bit of a recurring theme. He turned slowly and edged away as he did so, putting more distance between himself and Edmund Varley, those amber eyes fixed inquisitively on his once again. 

“None that your medicine will fix I’m afraid, Mr. Varley,” Morse said with a wry smile. 

Varley nodded amicably, apparently not taking it for the half-jest that it was. He tucked his hands into the pockets of the brown canvas apron he was wearing. “Well then I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Constable Morse. Mending troubled hearts is far beyond my area of expertise.”

He then reached beneath a shelf for a watering pail and set to work on some of the flowers, indicating that Morse follow.

“And what is that, exactly?” Morse let his fingertips trail over the soft, velveteen petals of a sunflower. “Your area of expertise.”

Varley adjusted his spectacles and limped over to a new set of potted plants, pail in tow. “Flowers and herbs, remedies and the like, as you can see. I’m of the mind that there is very little our own precious earth cannot heal.”

Morse briefly wondered what Gael, a nurse, would have to say on the matter. “Much trade?”

“Keeps a roof above my head,” Varley smiled pleasantly. “And it’s enough to pay Nathan over there to run the till after his classes. He’s studying botany up at the colleges. Bright lad.” 

Morse waited with patience he would not normally have if it didn’t feel like the ground was curving with each step. The incense was growing to be vaguely nauseating, however faint it was, and he longed for a breath of fresh air to clear his lungs, a bit of coolness to break the humid atmosphere of the shop. The bell chimed as someone left with their purchases and Morse’s wish was granted as a short gust of outside air snuck in providing only a slight sense of relief. 

Another minute passed and Varley returned the pail to its place and led the way to a corner of the shop where a small tea table and two odd chairs sat. “I don’t mean to keep you long, constable. Please, sit, and I’ll see if I can be of some use.”

A catalog of sorts lay atop the table, pages slightly yellowed from age, once glossy photographs of floral arrangements having long lost their shine. Varley pulled out one of the chairs and sat, wrangling his weak leg into a comfortable position, but Morse remained standing, flipping through the pages. The same hand appeared to be the model for half a dozen varieties of corsage, and as he reached the page for floral crowns Morse recognized the wearer of the creations in an instant. Even with her eyes closed and features weathered by the poor state of the paper, he knew the face of Varley’s eldest daughter. 

Why did he choose to do that to himself? He could have changed the photos, found someone else. Now, every time he had to sit with a customer for an order, he would be faced with the images of his dead child. _ If madness could be boiled down, _ Morse thought with what he distantly identified as pity,  _ it would look like this. _

As if sensing his judgement, Varley closed the small book, pulling it close to himself with an air of defensiveness. “Tessa’s boyfriend’s name was Coughlan. Jason Coughlan. Rotten boy, he was. Well,  _ rotted,  _ I should say.”

“How do you mean?” Morse asked, jotting down the name in his notebook. 

_ Jason Coughlan.  _ In his initial report, Varley gave only vague mention to someone named ‘Jace’. Not enough to go on at the time, especially when Varley couldn’t even describe him for a facial composite. Morse had no doubts that Jace and Jason were one and the same. 

“He was decent until he got into those drugs of his. Tessa never used. She fancied she’d be able to talk him into getting clean, they’d have a fair row about that sometimes.” Varley recalled, tapping his fingers on the book absently. “I had to ask him not to come ‘round the house anymore.”

“Because of Thalia?” Morse ventured. The name of Tessa’s younger sister had come back to him in an instant after Gael’s words triggered the memory last night. A little girl in the arms of her sister as doctors tried in vain to save their dying mother.

To Morse’s surprise, Varley gave him a blank look. “Sorry?”

“Thalia.” Morse repeated, starting to frown. “Your other daughter.”

“Oh.” the man said, ceasing his tapping. “I forgot. I don’t know.”

An icy sensation curled around the base of Morse’s neck, threatening to expand into a shiver that was difficult to hold back. His own voice sounded unfamiliar to his ears as he said, “You forgot?”

Varley hardly lifted a shoulder as he shrugged. “I- I haven’t seen her in an age. I think she’s with Maggie’s kin over in Kent. Must be. Might be. I don’t know. I forgot.”

Margaret was his wife, Morse knew. It seemed that Varley’s knowledge of his own family was limited to the deceased members, which was rather disturbing. His eldest daughter had been cruelly murdered and he had just… he had just  _ forgotten  _ about his other child. 

He knew what it felt like to be shunted aside in a family. In Gwen’s eyes, Morse hardly existed in comparison to Joyce. He never harboured any resentment toward his sister for that- after all, it wasn’t her fault. But this was different. That was neglect and petty hatred. This- this was  _ carelessness.  _

Morse had known that Varley’s mind strolled into lost grounds long ago, but this was far from what he expected. Perhaps that lucid moment at the concert had been a rarity for Varley. 

Any hope Morse held after meeting him the night before diminished in a heartbeat. 

But he had to at least  _ try.  _ Jason Coughlan was as good a start as any. 

“Do you have any idea where Jason is now?” Morse asked hopefully. A fight over drugs didn’t seem to equate to years of calculated, borderline ritualistic murder, but maybe- just maybe- Coughlan held more answers than the shell that sat before him. 

Varley nodded. “He shouldn’t be far. His friends like to hang around outside of the market by that off-license on the corner of Turl. I see them a fair amount.”

Morse took note of that. It was a short walk away and not far from where he’d parked the Jag. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Mr. Varley? Anything you might have remembered?” 

He bit his lower lip, staring intently at the tabletop, dragging his fingers along the grain of the wood. “There- there was a girl. Tessa’s friend. She came ‘round, that night. She was looking for Tessa. But she was gone.”

“Do you think she found her?” Morse tilted his head, preparing to write once more. “Do you remember her name at all?”

Varley opened his mouth and faltered, blinking a few times. “She- er- I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Varley.” Morse said placatingly. He masked the brief bit of hope that had mutated into irritation, praying Varley hadn’t noticed. There was very little that seemed to capture this man’s attention, anyway. 

Varley’s unsettling eyes met Morse’s, drawing him in with that gaze of his and locking him firmly in place. It was such a sudden shift from his composition only moments ago.  _ This again.  _

“I did not kill my daughter, Constable Morse.” 

And then it was gone. 

Suddenly, Morse felt as if a dam inside of him had snapped with the poor resistance of a brittle twig, a wave of nausea cascading over him. He didn’t notice he had closed his eyes to fight against it, opening them only when Varley’s hand on his shoulder stopped him falling. He realized he’d been half on his way from the seat to the floor. 

“Are you well?” Varley peered at him owlishly, his scruffy hair giving the appearance of tawny feathers. “I’m sure I have something that will-”

Morse didn’t wait to hear what concoction of ginger, cayenne, et al that Varley wanted to offer him, instead bidding him a good day and hastily removing himself from the shop- and Varley’s presence. 

The second he was outside he found himself gasping in lungfuls of clean, untainted air in hopes of calming his swimming mind. Despite the chill, he was still terribly warm, like the air inside of the florist’s was still clinging to him. 

Gael had said something about a fever, hadn’t he? 

Could that be all this was? A bit of sickness? 

Whatever it was, he didn’t have the time for it. 

A spritely-looking girl sitting on a bench outside of the perfumier’s gave him an odd look and Morse hardly gave her a second glance, forcing himself to head off in search of Coughlan. 

The stone under his feet seemed to move quickly as he followed Varley’s directions, exiting the Covered Market on High Street and turning left toward Turl, already spotting what appeared to be a small group of five young men loitering outside of the pale blue storefront that proclaimed itself to be a newsagents and off-license. 

The men- hardly men, boys really- were human parodies of chimneys, uniformly slim and dressed in smart, dark colours, puffing clouds of tobacco smoke into the air and laughing at a crude joke Morse only caught the tail end of. 

“And then I said- oi, look here,” one of the men hit two others’ arms, gesturing toward Morse. “Copper, d’you reckon?”

Someone snorted. “Him? Strong wind could knock him down.”

As if Morse hadn’t heard anything remotely similar to that before. The originality was frankly astounding, he thought irritably. 

“Detective Constable Morse,” Morse announced himself, flashing his warrant card just enough for those interested to take a look at it. “I’m looking for Jason Coughlan.”

“Don’t ring a bell,” the first man took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke in Morse’s direction and grinning, revealing a set of horrid yellow teeth far too decayed to belong to someone that young. 

“Maybe you need a moment to think.” Morse balled his fists in his pockets. It was almost easy to resist coughing after spending far too many a time in the car with Jakes who would smoke and often forget to roll a window down as a courtesy. “Jason Coughlan.”

The man crushed his cigarette with his foot. “You hard of hearing? I said I don’t know the name. You’d better get going if you know what’s good for you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well I suppose you’ll just have to find out the hard way, won’t-”

“Dad!”

Morse and the man both turned to see the girl running up to Morse and seizing his sleeve in her small hands. He recognized her as the girl that he saw sitting outside of the perfume shop, only then taking the time to observe her dull red hair and light splash of freckles, trousers that came poorly short of her knobby ankles, and peculiarly, a roughly hewn wooden charm that dangled from a cord around her neck. 

There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite place it. A familiarity that ran past walking by her only a few moments ago. Something else. 

Her face lit up as she tugged on his sleeve, trying to pull him away, but despite the strength of her grip she was a wispy, scrappy child and he a grown man, virtually unmovable by her attempts. Morse frowned, beginning to pull his arm away, but she wasn’t having it. 

“Dad, I  _ thought  _ that was you!” the girl exclaimed in an intolerably high voice- so high it had to be faked. She beamed, throwing her arms around Morse’s waist. “Are you working? Mum’s been  _ ages  _ and I was so bored I thought I was about to  _ die!” _

Then, quietly, so no one but Morse could hear:  _ “Just play along and come with me.” _

Morse was sure his face betrayed his befuddlement, but the young men only roared with laughter. The girl detached herself from Morse and grabbed his hand with her cold, small one, conveying her urgency with how tight she held it. It was mere moments before he began to lose feeling completely. 

“I’ve seen you around ‘ere. What’s your name, kid?” one of them asked, crouching down even though she was tall enough to be at his shoulder level. 

The girl screwed her face up in a scowl, looking like she wanted to spit at the man. “None of your business.”

His eyebrows went up and he looked at Morse, half laughing still. “Cute. Wonder where she gets that from.”

“Must be her mother.” Morse said flatly, concealing his confusion as best he could. He hoped his smile was convincing enough. 

“Must be.” the man agreed. “Look, are we done or are we gonna do this in front of the little one?”

Morse looked down at the strange little girl who was crushing his fingers, then back at the man. “We’re done. For now.”

He snickered. “For now, he says.”

Morse didn’t even get a chance to retort before the girl was dragging him toward the Jag parked just down the way, walking so quickly and purposefully that Morse had to wrench his hand from hers so it didn’t feel like he was being completely dragged. 

About a dozen questions were racing through his head and stumbling over one another as the two of them approached the car, the first being, “What are you-”

“This is your car, right?” the girl asked sharply, her natural voice much lower and clearer than the false one she’d put on just moments before. “I saw you come up in it.”

There was no hint of a smile, no remaining trace of childish joy on her face. It was replaced by a grim resoluteness that seemed to age her in an instant. He’d put her age at eight a minute ago. Now, it was closer to eleven or twelve.

“It is.” Morse decided to say, sparing her the logistics of the fact that it wasn’t  _ his  _ car, but the nick’s. “Listen, I think it’s best if we get you back to your mother-”

“Haven’t got one. You know, you’re not very grateful, are you?” she frowned at him, hazel eyes meeting his stare unflinchingly. The girl tugged on the door handle and let herself into the passenger seat without even asking. “I just saved your life.”

Morse was growing slightly irritated with her eccentricity but he could tell the men were still watching them so he got into the driver’s seat and closed the door. “What does that mean?”

The girl crossed her arms and Morse noticed that her knit jumper was riddled with holes and tears. “It means what it means. Those ones are trouble. I had to get you out of there, they were going to do something bad.”

He could have told her as much. “Why ‘dad’?” 

She reached up and poked the side of his head before gesturing to her own red hair. “Family resemblance, yeah?”

Morse found many problems with that logic. For one, he was young enough to be her brother, at a stretch, not her father. 

“We’re not family.” Morse said with great surety. 

“No, we’re not.” she agreed, bending down to fix up the laces of her dirty shoes. “I’ve been following you since Blackwell’s yesterday. Heard you talking about Tessa. You weren’t going to find anything out from that lot.”

Morse looked at her, far too surprised for his own liking. That certainly explained what he saw outside of his flat that morning. Not the cat, but  _ her.  _ “How do you know Tessa Varley?”

The girl shrugged. “She used to work in the shop. I saw her around. She was nice. And then she died.”

The way she said it was so simple and matter-of-fact that it nearly rubbed Morse the wrong way. Curt and straightforward. But her strangeness was finally beginning to make sense and he was able to answer some of those questions that were rattling around inside of his skull. 

“You’re looking for Jace, right?” the girl asked, bringing her feet up on the seat and hugging her knees to her chest. Morse tried not to cringe, wondering how much dirt she was going to track onto the vinyl and just how he was going to explain to Thursday that he’d allowed an odd child to just let herself into the vehicle and  _ that _ was why there were shoe prints on his seat. 

“Tessa’s old boyfriend.” Morse decided to divulge, casting his hook to see if anything would catch. “Jason Coughlan.”

She craned her neck to look out of the window toward the gaggle of men in front of the off-license. “He doesn’t run with them anymore. Hasn’t done for years. He’s got a house just outside of town. It’s peaceful, I like it there. I can take you, if you like. Maybe people will stop thinking he’s killed her if you talk to him.”

Morse was unable to make any promises in that regard, but he started the car regardless. After all, there was not much else he could do. On the off chance she was telling the truth and actually knew where Jason Coughlan was, a man they hadn’t been able to identify for years, a man who was in all likelihood now their top suspect- well, he couldn’t exactly walk away. Not when Varley was the way he was. Morse would never admit it, but he was growing desperate. There was only one day until Felicity Thorpe ended up dead in a river. Only one day to save a young woman’s life. 

There was, of course, the possibility that this was all some grand, convoluted trap set by Coughlan. The longer Morse looked at the girl, the clearer his memory became. He’d seen her face in a missing persons file once upon a time. One that had gone across Jakes’ desk, not his own. One that had never been resolved. There had been an uproar with the welfare department over it but of course Jakes skated by without so much as a hair loose from his pomaded look. 

The girl didn’t seem exactly well off with her ill fitting clothes and curly hair that looked like it could do with being brushed, but other than that she seemed- well, she didn’t exactly look like she’d been living in the gutter for the past few years. Which was how long ago Morse had glimpsed her file. Years. 

Missing. Yet here she was, in Oxford. 

Perhaps she never left. If that was the case, why did she never return home? Was it possible that Coughlan had something to do with her disappearance? The idea of a completely new element coming to light in regards to this massively confusing, convoluted case- it was the last thing Morse needed. What he needed was to find Jason Coughlan. What he needed was to get this girl back home. 

Morse knew that he should take her to the station and figure out just who she was, who her family was. But-

_ God, his head hurt.  _

“What’s your name?” the girl chirped, luminous eyes observing him with childlike interest, a subtle change from her mature demeanor. 

Somehow, the question seemed to put him at ease, and Morse settled back in the seat, relinquishing his white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. “Morse. I’m a detective.”

“Moore?”

“Morse,” he repeated, hating the words he knew he had to say next. “Like the code.”

The girl grinned, obviously humoured. She tapped out a series of erratic beats on the window. “Dots and dashes.”

“That’s right.” Morse found himself smiling a bit in turn. 

She gave him a considering look and stuck out her hand. He expected it to be grimy and dirty but it was clean, not a hint of dirt beneath her nails. Wherever she had been the past few years, she was being taken care of to some degree. Still, she was thinner than a child ought to be. 

“Rowan.” she shook his hand firmly, sticking her chin out stubbornly. “Like the tree. Morse like the code, Rowan like the tree.” she chortled, amused by her own wit. 

“Rowan, how old are you?”

“Eleven.” she said after a pause, like she hadn’t considered it in a while. “I’m eleven.”

She was just a child. What was she doing, running into fights and dragging adults out of them, climbing into strangers’ cars and leading the way to murder suspects? Had no one taught her better? Or was this just the headstrong way she was?

_ “Word of advice: don’t have children.”  _ Thursday’s voice rang out in his head.  _ “They’ll make you old before your time.” _

There was a point when youth ceased to be a handicap, and Morse had just barely fought his way past it. He was too young, and youth meant incompetence, inexperience, foolishness. It put you below the battle hardened coppers and senior officers who claimed to have shone torches into the darkest corners of the world, who bore the burden of years. 

He was young yet, but that did not mean he was immune to that. The star shaped scar on his hip from Mrs. Coke-Norris’ gun, the thin slash from Gull’s knife under the Bodleian, they were testament to that. 

Rowan wasn’t him, though. He had no idea who she was. 

Well, he had an inkling. 

“Can we go?” Rowan asked, beginning to show signs of impatience by fiddling with the wooden charm on her necklace. “I know the way.”

Morse turned to face her fully, studying her face for any sort of answer. “Why do you want to go to Jason so badly?”

Rowan let go of the necklace. “Home. He’s at home.”

“Your home?”

“Our home.”

_ Our home.  _ Coughlan was family, then. He felt a little better about it now. Take her home. He could do that. 

Morse briefly wondered what Thursday would have to say on letting children lead the way to a murder suspect. Only briefly. 

Against his better judgement, he turned the keys in the ignition and drove. 


	5. Medea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between chapters 3 and 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this chapter the tipping point after which everything proceeds to rapidly go south because that's honestly the direction the plot is going from here until the end. Will it get better? Well, you'll have to see, I suppose. Until then, the angst monster continues to hijack my writing.  
In other news, Elegy just passed 4k hits??! I can't quite believe it but wow, I'm so thrilled and I'm glad it's being received so well. It's faring better than this one, in any case. Woops. But really, thank you so much to the amazing readers that made this possible and motivate me to keep going. Your comments and support mean the world and I promise I have many more fics in store. After all, the Endeavour tv canon is taking a sharp turn in a bad direction so I have to find solace in my own little world I've created here. You're all welcome to join, there's plenty of room. And tea.  
Now, without further ado-

“He’s a copper, Gael.” 

“And somehow that isn’t at the top of my list of concerns.” Gael flicked the straw protruding from Sophia’s vibrantly coloured cocktail. 

_ He’d made sure Morse got home alright after he took a bit of a turn on the bus, feeling an awful pitting sensation in his stomach when he left him there in his flat. He should have stayed on the bus and taken Morse directly to the hospital, but the man was half awake and comically uncooperative. Gael had checked his temperature just before they’d disembarked the bus and found that it seemed to have gone down enough to make him feel a bit more comfortable about it. Morse would need a doctor eventually, but right now he needed proper sleep. Gael shut off his nurse’s brain and tried to stop diagnosing him, focusing on the here and now. _

_ He paid the fare for both of them and aided Morse off the bus, half carrying the semi-conscious lightweight of a detective down the few steps and onto the sidewalk. Morse’s foot caught on the kerb and nearly threw them forward, but Gael regained their balance. _

_ Thankfully there wasn’t far for them to go since the bus had dropped them off on the corner closest to Morse’s flat. The streetlamps and few porch lights turned on helped light their way and step by step Morse seemed to come back to himself, whether it was waking up or finally finding his way out of the maze in his mind. Gael breathed a small sigh of relief but didn’t remove his arm from his shoulders- just to be safe. _

_ The pavement beneath them was littered with the occasional crumpled cigarette butt and scorch mark from said cigarette, leaving the ground pockmarked from weathering and ash. Even with fall rapidly approaching, a few errant weeds still straining up through the spaces between stones. Gael watched their feet move at different paces, Morse’s hastily polished dress shoes just barely lagging behind his own. _

_ It was hard not to notice the way Morse seemed to try and curl into him, like it was an embrace and not Gael trying to make sure he didn’t trip and concuss himself. The soft coarseness of Morse’s hair against his cheek as he leaned on Gael’s shoulder was enough to derail any logical train of thought and he huffed out a small laugh. It wasn’t funny, but Gael laughed. Maybe because it shouldn’t be happening, because it’ll never happen again, because if Morse was in the right frame of mind he would never be this close. Despite the physical proximity, he felt like Morse had never been further. _

_ It hurt like something that never really heals. _

_ “Morse?” he asked quietly, pausing at the top of the steps to the basement flat. _

_ “Hm?” came the even softer reply as he blinked his eyes blearily, reaching for the iron railing to balance himself. _

_ “Can you manage the stairs, love?” _

_ The word had escaped before he even noticed it forming and he felt like pitching himself down the steps, his insides feeling like they were wringing themselves into a noose, but Morse didn’t seem to notice a thing. He nodded slowly and walked a bit unsteadily down the steps, Gael not far behind to make sure he didn’t fall. _

_ The moonlight washed over Morse’s face, bleaching away his blemishes and freckles, casting a dreamlike glow over him that somehow made Gael uneasy. Morse wasn’t meant to be perfect, wasn’t supposed to be a dream with his features erased, scars covered, all straight lines and tamed hair. In the moonlight he couldn’t see all the different colours of Morse’s unmanageable wavy hair that begrudgingly agreed to call itself red, couldn’t see the freckles that were beginning to fade after Morse’s summertime complaints- he called them a ‘nuisance’. _

_ He doesn’t want to say he’s beautiful. Morse would hate that. _

_ But the truth is often a hateful thing anyway. _

_ Morse let his forehead rest against the door as he closed his eyes, lips parted as he drew in a shallow breath, searching his pockets for his keys. They would be in the front right pocket of his trousers. They usually were, Gael knew. And sure enough, that was where Morse found them. _

_ “Let me,” Gael offered when Morse struggled with fitting the key into the lock, his movements slow and tired. He made a frustrated sound and Gael took his cold hand, gently removing the key. The offensive ink of that woman’s phone number stared up at him and Gael looked away, ignoring the pinprick of pain in his chest and unlocking the door for him. _

_ The flat was dark and Gael wasn’t entirely sure where the light was- he had only been there a handful of times- but he found it within a few moments and flicked it on. The light was poor and dim, the bulb in dire need of replacement sometime soon. He doubted Morse was the sort to have spares tucked away in some closet or cupboard. _

_ Morse lurched toward the sofa but Gael caught him by his arms, shaking his head. “Bed, Morse. You need rest, you’re ill.” _

_ Morse scoffed feebly. “M’not.” _

_ “Oh yes, you look fit to row the Thames right now,” Gael teased, drawing a small smile from Morse. “That’s more like it. Come on, there we go.” _

_ He helped Morse toward his room and the man fell bodily on top of the bed, no regard for his attire, not even caring to draw the covers over himself. He mumbled something incomprehensible and nestled his head into the pillows, doing something terrible to his hair in the process, and soon he was dead to the world. _

_ Gael took his shoes off before they could dirty the blankets and set them side by side on the ground before heading to the kitchen and filling a glass from the tap, leaving it at Morse’s bedside. His fingers itched to fix Morse’s hair but he restrained himself. No. Not allowed. _

_ He whispered a goodnight and left. _

_ No sooner had he gotten back to his own flat had the phone rang and Sophia- Nurse Henshaw- was on the other end, asking him to come out for drinks. He thought about Morse and his tired but beautiful eyes, the accidental word at the top of the steps. _

_ Drinks sounded brilliant right about then. _

Sophie moved her glass away from him, nudging his own in his direction. “If you drink yours you’ll stop making fun of mine.”

“Soph, it’s _ pink.” _Gael stared at her strange concoction, then back at his own glass half full of amber liquid. “And I’ve already had two.”

She leaned back in her seat, making an exasperated sound. It wasn’t often that they did this and it was more at Sophia’s insistence than anything else. Gael wasn’t overly fond of clubs, but this particular sort was supposedly alright. Soph had complained that she was tired of going to the ‘normal’ pubs where they had to pretend to be a couple. Gael pointed out that no one said they had to pretend about anything and she rolled her eyes like he’d said something incredibly naive, and in a way he had. 

“You need to let him go.” Sophia insisted gently, honey eyes glinting sadly. “He's decent enough, but he’s dangerous.”

“Soph, I-”

She gave him an irritated look. “You’re hopeless. You know what I mean, Gael. His sort. Coppers. They’ll string you up so quick your feet won’t touch the ground. Besides, you don’t even know if he’s-”

A thunderous round of laughter came from the direction of a group of men at the bar, cutting her off. As Gael waited for them to settle down so Sophia could speak, a glint of wavy red hair flashed under the multicoloured lights and he felt a twist in his chest before someone moved, revealing the person to be a young woman with deceptively short locks. She seemed to look right past him toward his colleague, but Soph was surprisingly blind to it, much too caught up in reprimanding Gael. Not surprising, rather. She’d been off the dating game after since her last girlfriend had gotten a touch obsessive. 

“You were saying?” he prompted her, draining the rest of his glass in order to make her next words even remotely tolerable. 

Sophia sighed and stirred her straw in her drink._ “Cariad, _ I think you’re overlooking the fact that you might not be his type. That he’s not- not like _ us. _Or worse, you’ve thought about it and decided you want to pursue him regardless.”

Gael chose not to respond, staring at the bottom of his glass.

“Oh,” Sophia said softly. “It is that bad.”

“I haven’t said anything.” he protested, pushing the glass away before its emptiness could mock him any further. 

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” 

“You act like that’s some grand revelation.” 

“You’re hopeless.”

“So you’ve said.” 

Sophia buried her face in her hands and shook her head, her brown hair falling in a curtain, a shield. He felt a twinge of guilt for worrying her so, but what was he meant to do? She would no doubt continue to insist that he move on, forget him, but that was something much easier said than done. This was not the first time they had a discussion about Morse in this very same place. Only a week ago, Sophia had taken Gael by the arm and told him that any sane man in the building would be lucky to have him, but that just wasn’t the point. She understood love, but was pretending not to for the sake of the argument. Just as he was pretending to be naive enough to pass as denial. Gael wasn’t trying to fool Sophia, though. He was trying to fool himself. 

He just didn’t want her to be right about this. About Morse. Because if he continued, if he kept on digging himself into a mess he was unable to see, he’d find himself at the bottom of his own grave. 

\------

_ “Hazel, what have you done?” _

Those were the first words that Hazel Ashenhurst heard when the telephone rang in the dead hours of the night, startling her out of a rather interesting dream that was already beginning to bleed away, diluted by her increasing wakefulness. She silently damned the caller to hell and tore the phone off the base before it could ring once again. The last thing she wanted on top of this whole Felicity affair was for Mrs. Norton to get on her about late night calls waking the whole house. 

How long had it been since the policeman tracked her down to Blackwells? Asking about those girls? About Tessa? She couldn’t even remember. It seemed like a world ago. But no, it must have been only yesterday. 

He seemed nice enough, that Morse. Troubled, certainly, but nice. 

And a damned nuisance. If it was _ him _calling at this hour-

“Who-” she began to snap, feeling an irritated fire kindling in her voice.

_ “Hazel, what have you done?” _

Her diatribe was cut cold in its tracks as the voice found its home in her memory. Somewhere much more distant than a short conversation yesterday afternoon. 

“Jason?” the name sounded foreign to her ears, hardly recognizable. But there it was again. Jason. _ Jason, Jason, Jason. _

Jason like the Argonaut. The dashing Greek hero who scorned the sorceress Medea. She’d read Euripides last term at the colleges and something about it… felt right. She hadn’t thought much about him until then. And promptly forgot him afterward. And now here he was again. 

The image of his flaxen hair and dull eyes. Oh, they were bright enough, but not as bright as Tessa’s had been. Not as beautiful, not as full of life as hers. He stole that life away from her bit by bit. It wasn’t his to take, wasn’t his to have. 

_ “That missing Thorpe girl. I’ve seen you with her. What did you do?” _ It was Jason alright. Tessa’s Jason. He was always so straightforward, so blunt. ‘Honest,’ Tessa called it. ‘Reliable.’ 

She’d tried, hadn’t she? Hazel tried her hand at that. Honest. Blunt. 

_ ‘Just tell the truth.’ _Tessa’s voice was clear as day but black as night all at once. 

She told her.

And look where they were.

Hazel let out a laugh that slit through the silence as easily as a dagger. “What makes you think I’ve done something?” 

_ “I know what you did. I saw it.” _ Jason sounded out of breath, short gasps sounding across the receiver. _ “I saw you two fight. You broke that car window with her head, Hazel.” _

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I really don’t.” Hazel snapped as quietly as she could, keeping an eye on the door, watching for any footsteps to cut into the sliver of light beneath it. “Are you on something? Is that what this is?”

Jason laughed bitterly from the other end. _ “You’ve never been able to wrap me around your finger, you know. Not like Mr. Varley. Or Tessa.” _

“Don’t you say her name, you-” 

_ “I have more right to say it than you, Hazel. Shall I say it again? Tessa. Theresa. Theresa Rose Varley!” _

“Stop it!” she hissed, desperation rising. Not her name from his mouth. His words. _ NO _. “Stop!”

_ “No, _ you _ stop.” _ Jason ordered, and there was a shuffling from his end. Perhaps he was moving. Or someone else was. A high voice said something in the distance. A child. _ “The police have seen the car, you know. I’ll tell them everything. If Felicity Thorpe isn’t back home by Saturday evening your life is over, Hazel. Her life is the price for my silence. I’ll give you until then to set things right.” _

“Why not just tell them now?” Hazel sneered, wishing for all the world they could see each other’s faces. “If you want to save her so badly.” 

_ “I believe in redemption. Repentance. I want to give you a chance to do something right.” _

“I don’t have her.”

_ “Hazel, we’re past lies now-” _

“I. Don’t. Have her.” she enunciated so it would penetrate his thick skull, smoothing down the rough edges of her voice. “She’s my friend. I never touched her, I never hurt her. You’re on a trip, Jace, and you need help. Go to a doctor, not the police.”

Jason started laughing again. Oh, how she _ hated _his laugh. 

_ “They’ve spoken to you already, haven’t they?” _ Jason chuckled, sounding half delirious. _ “I wonder what you told them. Who was it you threw out to the wolves? Old Varley? Me? Or do they not know about you and Tessa? I’ll bet they asked you about her and the others. Of course you kept quiet about your demons.” _

_ “My _ demons?!” Hazel swore she would have spit venom were she able to. She glanced at the door once more and tightened her grip on the blue porcelain of the phone, knuckles going white in the moonlight. “You- _ you- _ you _ spoiled her! Ruined her! _ She was _ mine!” _

_ “No, Hazel.” _ she could picture Jason shaking his head, eyes downcast. _ “She wasn’t yours. She wasn’t mine. She was her own person who made her own choices. Her life was her own.” _

“You took her away, you with your lies and your drugs. I tried to save her from you-”

_ “I got clean for her. I never let her touch that stuff.” _

“She got into it anyway. You poisoned her, turned her rotten. You killed her.”

_ “We both know who really killed her.” _How dare he sound so calm?

“You.” Hazel said evenly. 

_ “No-” _

“I loved her and you killed her.”

_ “Hazel-” _

“You don’t believe me.” Hazel shook her head, seething. “You couldn’t see-”

_ “I believe you.” _ Jason said quietly, the stillness of his voice somehow making her listen. _ “I believe you loved her. You loved Tessa. Just as I did. The only difference is that you loved her to death.” _

“Jason-”

The line went dead. 

Hazel slammed the receiver back onto the base of the telephone, not caring any longer if she woke the Nortons. 

_ How dare he? How dare he say those things? _There was no way he knew. How could he? He didn’t know what he was talking about. 

Still, if he went to the police- that wouldn’t solve anything. Damn him and his foolishness. What was he trying to accomplish? She didn’t have a hand for him to force. 

Fine, she thought. Let Jason be Jason. She would take her turn as Medea. Tear him down from the inside out. 

Just like he’d done to her. 

An eye for an eye.

\------

“I need a lift back into town in the morning,” Rowan tugged on his sleeve once he’d set the phone down. “To see that policeman. I’ll bring him ‘round, we can explain-”

Jace shook his head, sinking into the nearest armchair in the sitting room. All of the furniture was mismatched, abandoned or gifted by different tenants with even more contrasting tastes. “It’s dangerous, Ro. I know they want me for the murders. They’ll cuff me given a second to do so.”

“But we can _ tell _them!” she insisted, eyes wide and imploring. “We can put it right! I mean, I’m not entirely sure about the others-”

“‘Not entirely sure’?” Jace repeated, staring at the child. “The only reason I called her was because you said you _ knew! _ The deaths match!"

"I know!" Rowan screwed her face up in a frustrated grimace. “It- it comes and goes. You know this.”

Jace sighed. “What’s Del said about it?”

“She says it’s getting better.” _ Little liar. _

He shook his head and closed his eyes, sinking further into the seat. It had been a long day on top of all this business. There had been a violent row between two of the occupants he’d opened the house to and they were voted out. They packed their bags and took their things. Left their share of the rent unpaid, too. But he hadn’t mentioned that to Del. He would cover their tab. Smooth things over. It was _ his _house after all. A haven from the outside world. A place where new lives were kindled and fostered. A place of forgiveness and second chances. 

Jason had to give Hazel a chance. He had his own faults to atone for, but her- goodness, these were human lives. 

“Hazel knows what she has to do.”

No response.

Jason opened his eyes, and Rowan was nowhere to be seen.


	6. Persephone

For all her apathy toward grimness, WPC Trewlove despised death. 

The Thorpe house was full of it. To any onlooker it looked absolutely normal, potted herbs in the kitchen windowsill, family portraits decorating every available surface and wall, and bits of dust missed in cleaning. Once you stepped inside and stayed for a few moments, however, it was palpable. Unmistakable. 

Mrs. Thorpe was the sort of ill that never really went away, never really got better. Were she in hospital, the doctor would pull the family members aside and say in a hushed, knowing voice: _ “I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.” _ It was a fool’s errand to try and find a remedy for a body that had already slated itself to depart, it was Sisyphus trying to cheat death, risking damnation for one more day in the sun. 

Trewlove remembered standing with her family at her grandmother’s bedside when she was young, the aged woman somehow still with them even as the last sands trickled through the hourglass. Even as a child, Trewlove hated being there in a room so suffused with death and suffering and illness. 

Apparently Mrs. Thorpe had taken a rather bad turn after Trewlove and Thursday’s last visit to the house, the knowledge of her daughter’s abduction just too much stress for her body to handle in its current state. When Trewlove met her, she’d been able to stand unaided, puttering around the kitchen, fixing cups of tea despite their protests. Then, Thursday had taken off his hat and held it grimly between his hands, delivering the news. 

A teacup shattered. 

Now, a day later, Trewlove could still see a small chip lodged underneath a rug. 

“It’s her heart,” Mr. Thorpe said simply the second time they’d come ‘round, just as he did the first time. They were standing around his wife’s bed since both of them needed to be spoken to and she wasn’t fit to move. He was looking worse for wear himself, the effects of anxiety, of _ not knowing _taking their toll. A father who’d lost his daughter. 

But she wasn’t entirely lost yet, Trewlove had to remind herself. According to Morse, they had at least another day. The man was seldom wrong, and she had discovered her propensity to put faith in his words rather early on. 

Together, Thursday and Trewlove asked more questions, picking up where their last meeting had been cut short by shattered porcelain. No answer was good, all coming up negative, leading nowhere. Dead end after dead end. No strange people had approached her to their knowledge, she had no enemies, no one who would wish her harm. 

“Mr. Thorpe,” Inspector Thursday tried, looking away from the frail form of Mrs. Thorpe on her bed and the vanity cluttered with pill bottles and various glass phials. “I didn’t ask before because I wasn’t sure of its relevance, but do the names Varley, Cleary, or Abbott mean anything to either of you?” 

The man’s brows knit into a dark line. “Varley? Why yes- we-” he broke off and went to the vanity, grabbing one of those curious glass bottles. “Here. That’s the man who runs that shop in the Covered Market, yeah? We’ve been trying everything, doctors, herbal remedies. Just to see if something will help. I’ve- I’ve been buying from him for months now.” 

“Did your daughter ever fetch any of the orders for you?” Trewlove asked gently, already knowing the answer, the dread of it pooling in her gut. Varley. Morse had gone to speak with him not long ago. The three had left the station around the same time, splitting up to cover more ground. 

Thorpe’s hand flew to his mouth, eyes wide. “Oh, God-”

_ She had. _

“Morse.” was all Trewlove had to say, the name shocking the inspector into motion. 

“Excuse us, sir,” Thursday tipped his hat and strode hurriedly from the room, out of the house that reeked of despair, Trewlove not far behind as they made their way back to the car. 

The old governor’s hands were just shy of trembling as they reached for the phone, calling up the station as they pulled out of the driveway. 

“This is Inspector Fred Thursday, I need a report on Constable Morse’s whereabouts,” Thursday said sharply to the operator on the other end, someone whose name he could care less about right now. 

_ “He just called not too long ago, sir,” _ the voice said with an irritating amount of calm. _ “He left an address, a house out by Bagley Wood he’s looking into. The- sorry?” _

The sound of muted conversation traveled through the line and the operator exchanged a few hurried words before returning to the inspector. Trewlove cast a look at Thursday, feeling the frigid water of dread beginning to rise up around them. 

“What’s happening?” Thursday demanded, all professional pretense gone, replaced with only concern. 

_ “It’s- we’ve just received a call from this house, sir. There’s been an assault, it sounds like. We’ve dispatched Sergeant Strange and an ambulance.” _

Fear felt like an electric shock and Trewlove jerked her head to the side, staring at Thursday, the overheard words having a shared effect. 

_ Morse. _Trewlove thought again, but did not say it this time. They were both thinking it now. 

“Give me the address.” Thursday’s free hand was tight around the steering column, knuckles bone white with tension. 

The operator rattled off the directions and the car’s tyres squealed against the pavement as they took off toward the wood. 

\------

It was a relatively short drive to the address the little girl provided Morse with, and he kept note of the route they took, placing the house on the map in his head. It was on the complete other side of the city from where the Varleys- well, just Edmund now- lived, and as the trees began to thicken alongside the road he noticed they were approaching Bagley Wood. 

Most of the leaves had adopted a copper tarnish, but their vibrant colours were dulled in the dim light as clouds brewed miserably up above, darkening with every passing moment. The pines dispersed amongst the growth were stubbornly maintaining possession of their needles, but even their emerald spines were beginning to weather away into an unattractive brown. 

There were roads that went into the wood, dirt paths just wide enough for vehicles, Morse knew. He’d been called out to a sudden death out there once, at one of the properties that just barely infringed on the preserve. There were others that sat a bit deeper within the trees, hidden. Secluded. 

The perfect place to hide. 

The perfect place to keep someone. 

He was suddenly glad he decided to take the rare initiative and phone the station to let them know where he was going. If things were as he was fearing, Morse would need backup. Should he find Felicity Thorpe, it would be best to have DeBryn just in case. After all, they had no idea what state these girls were in when they were taken. 

A rush of cold air grasped at Morse’s neck and he fought back a shiver, glancing sharply over at Rowan who had figured out how to open the window and was sticking her small, freckled hand outside, fingers swaying hypnotically in the wind. He nearly told her to close the window when a stray leaf blew in and tangled in her hair, another hitting her palm, but her stoic expression broke as she giggled, the child underneath coming to light once again. 

Not for the first time, Morse wondered- rather, _ worried- _if perhaps this strange girl was luring him into a trap of sorts. He saw this kind of thing before, people using their own children or siblings as bait. After all, who wouldn’t trust a child? They were the one thing meant to be still uncorrupted by the world, perfect pictures of innocence and purity. 

There was something not completely right about Rowan. That much he was certain of. Whether she was who she said she was, what her intentions were- he wasn’t sure. But above that doubt, he didn’t mistrust her. 

The wind began to tousle her short hair and she tied it back behind her head before more curls could start flying up in her face. The movement caused him to glance over and Morse noticed with slight alarm the small, star shaped scar just above the junction of her neck and shoulder. 

He continued to drive, and the window stayed open. 

Soon, Rowan directed him to turn onto a small road, tyre tracks worn through the grass, producing twin paths of dirt that led off the main road and into the edges of the wood. The Jag didn’t protest too much when faced with the off-road excursion, thankfully, nor was the path all too rugged. Well travelled, Morse noted. 

“Just up there.” Rowan pointed at a decent sized house in a man-made clearing, smoke puffing contentedly from the chimney of the place. 

As they neared, Morse found it curious that nothing about it broadcasted ‘threatening’ or ‘dangerous’. It seemed… homely. A well tended garden was slowly succumbing to the elements and the paint on the shutters looked relatively new. The brickwork of the house told its age, but it didn’t show much. He expected something entirely different. 

Something similar to the Gull inn up at Wolvercote.

A curtain twitched on the upper floor as Morse stopped the car just behind another one in front of the house. Coughlan, presumably. Watching them come up. 

Rowan wasted no time in leaping from the car and circling around to Morse’s side, waiting for him to get out so she could walk him up to the front door. Her anxiety was palpable and she seemed restless as she opened the door and led the way inside. 

What hit him first was the smell. Burning sage and herbs. Just like Varley’s shop. Sure enough, a few sticks on incense sat in a tray on an end table shoved up against the wall of the foyer, a bowl heaped with keys and loose change sitting beside it. A vase of dying flowers plucked from the front garden offered a splash of vibrance against the dark wood floor and cream coloured walls. 

Somehow he expected the place to be in a higher state of disarray. Instead, it was shockingly normal. Maybe even insidiously so. 

A clock was ticking somewhere, the sounds from the second hand flying at Morse’s ears like arrows finding their mark. He had been actively avoiding looking at his watch the entire day, but checked it then, spurred by the harrowing insistence of the hall clock. It had just gone noon. Halfway through the day. 

Time was slipping through Felicity Thorpe’s fingers. 

“I’ll look around for Jace.” Rowan told Morse before bounding off down a corridor, leaving him standing in the foyer. 

The clock continued to tick. 

He couldn’t just stand there waiting. Morse looked after where Rowan had gone, then went the opposite way, delving further into the house. 

Morse passed a sitting room, dining area, and miscellaneous quarters without coming into contact with a single soul. The ticking of the clock had been left behind in the foyer but without it, the house felt dead. Oddly silent. There was no creak of wood, no sound of the kettle whistling, nothing at all. It was unsettling, to say the least, and he could feel the tension in his nerves ratcheting up with every step he took. 

For all Edmund Varley’s cautionary embellishments on Jason Coughlan’s habits, the house Morse found himself walking through bore no trademark accents of a drug den of any sort. Perhaps there was more than met the eye, but he’d been in homes of that sort before, and this wasn’t one of them. There was every chance that Varley was wrong and Coughlan had indeed cleaned himself up, removed himself from fouler ventures. Morse couldn’t imagine the young man being able to maintain a place like this otherwise. 

It wasn’t long before he made his way to the back of the house, finding himself standing in a rather large kitchen space with what looked like hand-painted tiles covering the section of wall that spanned beneath the windowsill but above the counter. The windows, however, did not lead to the outside, Morse realised. At least not directly. 

Beyond the kitchen windows was a small conservatory space filled with potted plants and mismatched furniture. A small desk was covered in art supplies, old jams jars stocked to the bring with paintbrushes, and the glass wall that would have given him a clear view of the woods behind the house was covered with paper sketches clipped to lengths of string. 

Standing at an easel was the first person Morse had seen since Rowan left, and the woman was looking directly at him. 

She was hugging a shawl tightly around herself, dark, paint covered hands clutching at the material, a brush poised between two fingers. He couldn’t discern the colour of her eyes, but the intensity with which she was staring at him overshadowed that curiosity. Then, she gave him a nod. Beckoning. 

Morse looked down along the kitchen and found the doorway that led to the conservatory, walking into the glass enclosed space. It smelled fresh, _ alive, _with the plants and slight breeze drifting through the door to the outside that was propped open with a brick. No discernable trace of the incense that Morse frankly had enough of for one day. 

“I thought I felt a wounded soul join us.” the woman’s melodic voice floated across the space between them, drawing him even closer. For a brief moment it looked like she was smiling, but it was gone so quickly that Morse decided it must have been a trick of the light. 

“I’m not wounded.” Morse wasn’t sure how else to respond to that strange statement, but once the words were said they felt somehow… wrong. 

“Not on the outside, perhaps. But you wear the look of a dead man who just doesn’t know he is yet.” she replied cryptically, setting her brush down on the easel and folding her arms across her chest. “Who are you?”

He produced his warrant card and held it out. “Detective Constable Morse, Oxford City Police. And you are?”

“Delphi.” she said, giving his warrant card a studious examination before looking away, latching onto his eyes once again. 

Morse put his card away and exchanged it for his notebook and pen, flipping it open to his most recent page. “That's your real name, is it?”

Delphi gave him an odd look. “It’s as real as I need it to be.”

“Do you have a surname to go with that?”

“Do you have a first to go with yours?” Delphi countered deftly, turning back to her nearly-finished painting. “‘E. Morse’.” she said, parotting the signature on his card. “Names reveal so much, don’t they? And the eyes, of course.”

A light pattering sound from above caught his attention and Morse looked upward, seeing spots of water dotting the glass roof above him. It was finally beginning to rain, the clouds having given up on containing their burden, now releasing it down upon the world below. 

“I’m looking for Jason Coughlan,” Morse said, trying to take control of what was becoming an increasingly bizarre conversation. “I was told that he lives here, is that right?”

Delphi nodded and continued painting, each stroke adding to what appeared to be wavy tendrils of honey-brown hair. “Rowan brought you, didn’t she?”

“She did.” Morse said with a slight nod. “Is this Jason’s house?”

“His family’s house.” Delphi elaborated, exchanging her current brush for a small one, adding finer detail to the image she was creating. “They died in a car accident coming back from family in London two years back, leaving everything to Jason. More than he knows what to do with. He’s turned it into a haven for the lost. A way-station. If you’ve nowhere to go, you come here.”

As she spoke, Morse found himself stepping closer to look past her at the painting, his instinctive curiosity taking over and tugging him forward. 

It was a chiaroscuro, he noticed immediately, recognising the stark contrast between shadows and light that the style was composed of. Morse could see the slight influence of Caravaggio in the unsettling nature of the scene that was being depicted. 

The painting was a rather blatant parody of John Everett Millais’ painting of Ophelia in the river, the same work that Mason Gull had tried to mimic when he left Constance Brooks to drown in the Isis. Weeds and water plants tangled around the pale arms of the young woman in the scene, eyes wide open and shining with gold. Flowers were woven into her hair, many of them on the brink of floating away. A hand was reaching down from the top of the painting towards her outstretched one, fingertips just shy of brushing. 

Then, he saw what he should have noticed the moment he set eyes on the face of the woman in the painting. 

It was Tessa Varley. 

Or Enid Cleary. Or Josephine Abbott. Felicity Thorpe.

Morse jerked his head away from the sight and was met with the wall of sketches, many of them depicting various interpretations of the same scene. A young woman on the tipping point between drowning and salvation. 

The woman who called herself Delphi was following every shift in his expression, stepping back from the canvas to observe the new object of her study. 

“Who is this?” she asked him, her voice infused with curiosity rather than concern. 

“It’s your painting.” Morse said hoarsely, his own voice lost to his ears. “You know.”

Delphi tipped her head in acknowledgement. “It’s the goddess Persephone being returned to the underworld. She is doomed to live in a chiaroscuro of her own, half in darkness, half in light, each equinox either leaving the mortal world or returning to it. Both worlds are kept in balance by the movement of the goddess, spring coming in to bloom when she returns to her mother’s arms, the world dying in bloody colour as she is torn away, sent back to the realm of the dead. The river Styx here forms the boundary between worlds, a point of travel. It’s a beautiful story, really. A story of sacrifice. Love.”

To Morse, it was a story of murder. 

“But to you, this is someone else entirely.” Delphi realised, a peculiar expression crossing her face. “Who is this girl to you?”

He continued to stare at the sight, unable to answer. It was four people at once, too many faces in one. All lost, all stolen. 

Delphi unclipped a photo from her wall, holding it out to Morse. “Is it _ her?" _

Morse had just barely taken the photograph from her when a dull thud sounded from somewhere in the house, followed by a child’s shrill scream that froze his blood in his veins, the shock feeling like glass burying itself in his bones. Delphi’s eyes widened, lips parting in startled silence. 

Rowan. 

_ “Rowan!” _the child’s name was torn from his lips before Morse could even comprehend that he was yelling, suddenly finding himself bolting from the conservatory and back through the winding house toward the source of the cries. 

A thousand terrible thoughts ran through his mind in rapid succession as his feet moved beneath him, arms pumping at his sides, heart hammering painfully in his chest. 

It wasn’t long before he came upon the gruesome sight at the bottom of the main stairs, and Morse nearly fell over with how quickly he was forced to halt, lest he trip over the body that was lying bloody and broken at the bottom of the steps. Bile rose in his throat, his empty stomach having nothing else to yield, and Morse covered his face. He looked away from the body and at the floor, but found no reprieve there as the growing pool of blood spreading from the corpse intruded into his field of view. 

Pure darkness cut across Morse’s vision and he fetched up against the railing of the stairs for balance, squeezing his eyes shut as fresh waves of nausea assaulted him mercilessly, a feverish warmth enveloping his head and promising to take him away, far far away, if he just _ gave in- _

But Morse forced himself to look, expecting to see Delphi’s painting come into existence, Felicity Thorpe’s body at his feet- or even worse, Rowan’s. Instead, a young man’s dull green eyes stared at him without any life lighting them, dimming as death claimed him. The stab wound in the centre of his chest was still bleeding freely, his clothes and hands stained a sickening crimson. The man’s limbs were bent at odd, unnatural angles from being thrown down the stairs, and Morse tried not to think about the fact that even without being stabbed, his broken neck would have done him in just as quickly. 

He knew who it was without being told by Delphi’s shocked gasp behind him. The dead man was Jason Coughlan. 

A pained yelp anchored him in the present world once again and Morse stared up the large, mahogany staircase to a sight no better than the one he was avoiding looking at. 

The first person Morse saw was Rowan, his attention immediately drawn to the girl’s pale and terrified face as she looked down at the slick trail of blood shining on the polished wood, leading down to Jason’s body. She would have run to him, Morse knew. Had it not been for the knife at her throat. 

Morse followed the knife to a hand, then an arm, body, and finally a face, not quite sure he was able to believe what he was seeing. 

It was Hazel Ashenhurst, Felicity Thorpe’s flatmate, that was holding a knife to Rowan’s neck, the blade already dark with blood. It was Hazel Ashenhurst’s sleeve that Rowan was fearfully clutching at, as if she could possibly tear her arm away. 

Morse had only met her ever so briefly, questioning her at Blackwells about Felicity. He didn’t think she had any part of this, it wasn’t her hunt. He’d asked her if she’d known the others, and she paused. He didn’t think anything of that. He didn’t think she was capable of anything the case detailed. 

But there was no mistaking it now. 

It was Hazel Ashenhurst that killed Jason Coughlan. 

It was her that was about to kill Rowan. 

Morse tried to locate Delphi out of the corner of his eye and couldn’t. The woman was gone, but he could hear her voice nearby. Good. In all likelihood, she was calling the police- well, _ more _police.

“Morse!” Rowan cried, struggling against Hazel’s hold, but the woman fisted her hand in the material of her top, keeping her still. The girl’s eyes were saturated with tears, sheer terror twisting her childish face into a horrible caricature of what it had once been. “Morse-”

“Stop it!” Hazel hissed, glaring down at Morse as if she couldn’t possibly hate anything more in the world. “You weren’t meant to be here, Constable Morse. Not now. It’s too late for your justice.”

“Justice for Felicity?” Morse swallowed thickly, removing himself from the railing and taking a step onto the stairs, careful to avoid Jason’s blood. “Is that what you think this is?” 

“Justice for _ Tessa!” _ Hazel spat furiously, eyes aflame. “I came to talk to Jason, to reason with him. He called me last night, Constable, spouting terrible things. He was going to turn me in for _ his _crime.”

“And what was his crime, Miss Ashenhurst?” Morse asked as gently as he could, hands out in front of him as if somehow he could reach that knife from the bottom of the stairs, keep it away from the child. If he kept Hazel talking, just maybe Rowan stood a chance. 

“If Jason hadn’t- if she’d just _ stayed away _from him- she wouldn’t have died. None of them would. He killed her. He killed them all.” 

“No!” Rowan wriggled in Hazel’s grip, keeping watch of the knife_ . “You _ killed Tessa! I _ saw _ you. I _ remember-“ _

“Quiet, Tallie!” 

_ Tallie. Oh. _He'd heard that name before. 

Tallie. _Thalia. _

“You’re Thalia Varley.” Morse said with a sudden shock of clarity, the nagging suspicion now transformed into a fact. “Tessa’s little sister.” 

Up until now, none of the victims had anything in common other than their appearances. That was what made the investigation so difficult. So far as anyone knew, they never crossed paths with each other in significant ways. 

But now there was Hazel. She was the friend Edmund Varley couldn’t remember. She was Tessa Varley’s friend. She was Felicity Thorpe’s flatmate. 

She killed Jace Coughlan. 

And she was about to kill Ro- _ Thalia. _

“Where’s Felicity, Miss Ashenhurst?” Morse managed to ask, his voice dry as sawdust, the child’s eyes fixed on his as he tried to convey as much reassurance as he could muster in a single look. “There’s still time to save her, to save you-”

“You fool!” Hazel Ashenhurst spat, her face aflame. “I was trying to _ find _ her! Jason- Jason _ must _have known-”

Morse severely doubted that Jace was pretending about anything. It took all he had not to glance at the young man’s body at his feet. “And yet you killed him.”

Hazel’s anger seemed to subside for a moment. “He pretended not to know. But if I can’t have Te- Felicity- well, there are others. Sophia… she was close enough. Not quite though…” 

In her sudden daze, the knife began to lower and Rowan- Thalia_ \- _ saw her chance, viciously wrenching herself from Hazel’s grasp and running down the stairs to Morse- or perhaps just _ away _from Hazel. 

It was chaos from there. The woman shouted something incomprehensible and Morse flew forward to grab Rowan, her arms stretched out to reach for him, but in that moment she hit a wet smear of blood on the steps and a small shriek tore from her throat as her ankle twisted and she fell forward. Morse caught her rather clumsily and could hardly think to put her down before Hazel pushed past them and hit the front door, struggling to wrench it open with her blood slick hands. 

“Are you alright?” Morse asked breathlessly, leaning down so Rowan’s feet could touch the ground. 

The girl hissed as they made contact and she shifted her weight, favouring her left foot, whimpering slightly, “My ankle.”

“I’m sorry,” Morse said sincerely, looking over at Hazel. “Rowan, I-”

Her eyes went wide with panic. “No, Morse, don’t- don’t go!”

Rowan’s fists were clenched in the thin material of his coat and Morse felt guilt pinch his insides as he forced her to let go, setting the girl down onto a step and running after Hazel. Unwilling to strike or fight her, he seized Hazel around the waist just as she got the door open, trying to haul her away. But she would not allow herself to be restrained. 

“Let me GO!” Hazel roared, kicking wildly back at his legs and catching Morse solidly in the knee. 

She wriggled an arm free and slashed blindly behind her, the blur of silver barely reaching Morse’s periphery. A sharp pain cut across his upper arm and Morse gasped as the sensation sliced clean through the fog in his mind until it was the only thing he could comprehend. 

He’d forgotten about the knife. 

Hazel threw her elbow back into his jaw and Morse stumbled backward as a fresh blossom of pain erupted across his face. She swung the knife backward again and this time Morse instinctively released her, tripping backward away from the blade as she stumbled forward and out the door. Morse fell back against a wall and grabbed at his arm, his right hand coming away bloody and bright. He gritted his teeth against the stinging pain and ran outside after Hazel, determined to not let her escape. 

That was when he saw the three police cars in the drive and heard Hazel screaming bloody murder as Trewlove had her pressed down onto the gravel, securing cuffs around her wrists. The knife lay a few feet away and the constable was sporting a red mark on her cheek, her hat knocked loose, but was otherwise unaffected as she dragged Hazel to her feet. 

“No- NO! You don’t understand!” Hazel was protesting, wriggling like a fish on a hook. “He tried to kill me! He killed them! He was going to-”

A car door closing on her seemed to do the trick in silencing her mad ravings. 

“Alright, Morse?” Strange was jogging steadily toward him, and just behind him Morse could see Thursday talking with a paramedic by an ambulance before he met the eyes of his bagman and started making his way over. “ You’re bleeding.”

_ Yes, I knew that, thanks. _ But Morse was feeling too- too _ something- _to say anything acerbic in response. Instead, he simply nodded, grabbing his arm to stem the flow of already ceasing blood. “How did you get her so quickly?”

Strange frowned. “We got a call near ten minutes ago, a man in distress. It wasn’t you?”

Morse shook his head. “No, it must have been-” _ Jason. _His stomach rolled as he recalled the state of the young man’s body and Morse closed his eyes, hoping to seal them from the image, only to shut them in with it. He had no choice but to open them again. “I found Jason Coughlan, Tessa Varley’s boyfriend. Only it seems Hazel Ashenhurst got to him first. He must have made the call before I told Delphi to-”

“Slow down, matey.” Strange held his hands up. “Hazel Ashenhurst? Thorpe’s flatmate? She’s behind all of this?”

Thursday reached them, his brow furrowed with obvious confusion. “Ashenhurst? Are we sure?”

“I- I don’t know.” Morse said weakly, feeling his legs go weak beneath him. He needed to sit down. “I don’t think so. But she killed Jason Coughlan and-”

_ Rowan. _

“Sir,” he said with renewed urgency, tightening his grip on his arm. It didn’t even hurt at this point. Then again, he couldn’t feel much of _ anything. _“There’s a woman inside, a lodger named Delphi. And a child. It’s Varley’s missing daughter, Thalia.”

Thursday’s eyes widened and he gestured for Morse to lead the way back into the house. 

The disgusting copper smell of blood hit him like a wave but thankfully Rowan was no longer alone, Delphi helping her upright. The second Rowan saw Morse, her eyes lit up and she flung her arms around his waist in a vice-grip, burying her face in his chest. 

This time, he didn’t force her to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Hubris


	7. Hubris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated again within three days! What sorcery is this? Oh, it's called not being an essential worker and uni being almost out for the semester so I have way too much time on my hands.  
Just a quick note before the chapter to announce that I have a new fic in the works! The title of this new work is "Prisoner" (the creativity of that title is astonishing, hold for applause) and the first chapter is already posted for your reading pleasure. I'll be attempting to post either concurrently with this fic or after Chiaroscuro is finished (which won't be long now). I have a few other short fics in planning phases right now and there will be another fic in the Concerto series following Chiaroscuro. Yes, another dreadfully long original case fic is set to come right after Elegy and Chiaroscuro. Just what no one asked for.  
Anyway, please check out the first chapter of Prisoner, and I hope you enjoy it.

Once at the hospital, Morse, thankfully, required no more than a brief examination after he took his shirt off to expose the cut on his arm before it was decided that he wasn’t in need of stitches. The knife didn't cut deep enough to warrant them. A small mercy, all things considered. Rowan had gotten off lucky as well. Other than a very mildly sprained ankle from her slip on the stairs, the girl was unharmed. Physically, at the very least. 

He didn’t stick around to watch DeBryn draw the sheet over Jason Coughlan’s mangled body. By the time Delphi had given a short account to Trewlove and agreed to accompany them to the station, Morse found himself being shephered by Thursday toward the awaiting ambulance, Strange not a few feet behind them carrying Rowan like she weighed nothing. 

_ Rowan.  _ Morse couldn’t get the name out of his head, not even when he knew what it really was. She was Thalia Varley. 

But she was Rowan as well. That was who she chose to be. That was who she was now.

The girl was currently lying on a hospital cot, either asleep or doing a very compelling impersonation of someone asleep. A nurse had wrapped her ankle up and given her a small dose of painkillers before letting her go to sleep. Rowan had been oddly quiet ever since the Coughlan house, not saying so much as a word to Morse during the ambulance ride or afterward. Then again, Morse hadn’t really pressed much. 

The same nurse told Morse to sit tight on the bed across from Rowan as she went off to fetch bandages and antiseptic for his own wound, leaving him to stare at the child with a million questions badgering him. One, in particular.

Did she really see her sister’s murder?

That was what she told Hazel Ashenhurst.  _ I saw you. I remember.  _

She saw it. She remembered. That alone answered about half of Morse’s questions and spawned dozens more. It was no mystery that she decided to run away after a trauma like that, especially with the way her father had devolved over the years. It was too much for her to cope with. One day, she had a family. A peaceful, relatively normal life. 

Then, in one fell swoop, all of it shattered to pieces. 

_ No wonder Joan left. _

“Penny for them.” a voice said to his left and Morse looked up to see Gael Edwards smiling at him a bit tiredly. There were faint shadows under his eyes like he hadn’t slept very well, but Morse knew that he couldn’t look much better himself. 

Still, a lump formed in Morse’s throat and he couldn’t quite attribute the exact cause. He remembered Gael’s blatant concern and kindness at the concert the night before, his strange honesty at the bus stop, and the missing time between then and the morning. It felt like a world away, a sort of normalcy that seemed impossible to exist at the moment. 

“You know what I have to say to that.” Morse tried for a smile himself and Gael pulled a chair up, depositing a small kit and roll of bandages on the bed before sitting in the chair and sighing, his smile a bit sadder now, worn down at the edges. 

“Still running into mad killers, then?” Gael gestured toward Morse’s arm before taking hold of it and stretching it out straight so he could see the cut better. His gloved hands felt welcomingly cool against Morse’s too-warm skin, but Morse found himself focusing more on the brightness of his eyes as they crinkled from the good-natured jest. Gael made a disapproving sound as he observed the wound. “I think sharp objects like you too much, Morse.”

Morse shrugged his other shoulder, allowing himself a small smirk. “Is that your professional opinion as a nurse?”

“Most definitely.” Gael chuckled lightly and set to work on cleaning out the wound with what he had in the kit. There was a brief moment of silence as Morse sat still and allowed Gael to do his job, doing nothing more than watching the nurse in silence, observing the tenseness in his jaw as he sympathised with Morse’s small winces and the way his brow furrowed over impossibly blue eyes while he concentrated. Somehow, it soothed Morse. 

He remembered the absolute silence of the Quaker meetings he attended as a child, how no one would speak unless they were suddenly motivated to do so by whatever entity it was they believed manipulated them. Morse never put much stock in it, but he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the meeting house, and just being in the company of his mother. That was, of course, up until the day he watched her stand at a meeting and the following words came from her mouth:  _ “My husband, Cyril, is having an affair.” _

Morse finally felt compelled to speak, clearing his throat as Gael wound a length of bandages around his arm. “I suppose I should thank you. For helping me home last night. I didn’t-”

An odd looked crossed over Gael’s features but it was gone in an instant and the nurse shook his head, trimming the bandage and clipping it into place. “You were sick, Morse. Someone needed to get you home safe, and I’m always glad to help.”

The sincerity of it almost made Morse flush, but if he did, he couldn’t feel it against the feverish warmth that continued to plague him. “Well, I’ll pay you back the bus fare in any case-”

“Morse, you don’t-”

“But-”

“Morse.” Gael said with paradoxically firm gentleness. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly.”

“I-”

“How are you feeling?” Gael changed the subject back to the more pertinent matter and pressed his hand to Morse’s brow, checking his temperature. He quickly frowned and took his hand away, not liking what he found. “You’re still warm. Any chance you snuck in a visit to the doctor before running after your murderer?”

_ We’re still not certain she  _ is  _ the murderer,  _ Morse thought to himself, and shook his head. “There wasn't time.”

Gael produced a thermometer from the kit and took Morse’s temperature properly, looking even more troubled as he read the small lines after. “Thirty-eight. Persistent low-grade fever, probably escalating. Are you feeling anything? Confusion, dizziness, anything like that?”

“Confusion and dizziness,” Morse admitted, recalling the severity of the reaction he’d had to seeing Coughlan’s body. “Headaches. And short blackouts, seconds apiece. I don’t remember anything from last night after we boarded the bus. That’s all.”

“Have you suffered from any viral or bacterial infections in the past year?”

“No.” 

“Would you say you’ve been under significant stress lately?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“So that’s a yes.” Gael sat back, sighing. “We both know I’m not a doctor so I can’t say for certain but I think you probably have a psychogenic fever.”

Morse frowned, looking down at his bloodied shirt that he was holding in his lap.  _ Psychogenic?  _ “It’s psychological?”

“Well it sounds bad when you say it like that.” Gael took his gloves off and threw them into the nearest bin before running a hand down his face. “There was a lecture on at the colleges on psychogenic and psychosomatic illnesses and it was dreadfully interesting, really, but they said a bit about stress-induced fevers that can present as low-grade hyperthermia. Essentially, your stress is manifesting itself in high body temperature and illness. Coupled with your tendency to disregard sleep and eating I’m sure it feels a lot worse. You need to slow down, Morse. You can’t be doing all this right now.”

“I have to!” Morse said a bit louder than he meant to, casting a look at Rowan to make sure she hadn’t been woken. Then, looking back at Gael, he said insistently, “I  _ have to.  _ Unless I stop it, a girl is going to be killed tomorrow. I can’t fail this time. You-” Morse rubbed his face and sighed tiredly. “You wouldn’t understand it.”

Gael’s hand was on his uninjured arm in an instant, reassuring in its presence as the nurse tried to look into his concealed eyes. “What I  _ understand  _ is that you’re the sort of person willing to run himself into the ground for the sake of others. It’s admirable, but it’s dangerous. I don’t think any less of you for how you live your life, but you need to take care of yourself.”

“I thought that’s what you were here for.” Morse joked lightly, letting his hand fall back to his lap so he could see Gael’s face and was once again struck by the sincerity and compassion he found there. 

“I’m here as long as you want me to be,” Gael gave his arm a light squeeze before taking his hand away once again. “But I’d much rather see you kept in one piece than have to pick up thousands of them.”

“I’m not going to get myself killed, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Morse said with a small scoff.

“Are you really able to make that promise to me?” Gael asked him, the intensity in his eyes almost off-putting. Then, it faded, replaced by that certain weariness once again, which was nearly masked by a wan smile. “Come on, I have a shirt in my locker you can borrow.”

Morse shook his head. “Gael, you don’t have to-”

“You very well can’t wear that thing anymore,” Gael gestured to the bloody and torn sleeve of Morse’s shirt that sat in a heap on his lap. “And besides, the nurses’ break room is the only place you can get a decent cup of tea in this bloody hospital.”

At that last comment, Morse broke into a smile, and Gael’s own grew. With a final bit of reluctance, Morse looked over at Rowan to make sure she was still sound asleep, and caught Trewlove’s eye from where she was by the nurse’s station. Upon seeing him stand, she gave a nod, and looked over at Rowan as well. 

Feeling safe in Rowan’s security, Morse followed Gael out of the war and down a few corridors to a small locker room painted a bluish sort of green that didn’t quite agree with him. Even so, it was a much nicer locker room than he was accustomed to seeing, everything in good conditions, no spots of rust or dirt on anything. There were laundry bins for dirty towels and scrubs that stood beneath a set of shelves. The floor was covered in tiles and small grates that no doubt were there to collect runoff from the line of showers behind the rows of freestanding lockers. It was locker seventy-three that Gael stopped at, fiddling with the combination lock. 

“This is the surgeons’ locker room.” Gael said by way of explanation, casting a hand behind him at everything. “Hospital makes sure the place is kept nice so their more valuable assets don’t complain. You should see the state of the nurses’ one. Misogynistic bureaucracy at work.”

“You’re not a surgeon.” Morse said, confused, while Gael pulled his locker open and began rifling through the few sets of clothes he had hanging in it. 

“No, but I have the anatomy of one.” Gael laughed hollowly and, upon seeing Morse’s expression, elaborated. “All the surgeons here are men. All the other nurses are female. Therefore-” he gave another wave of his hand. “-I was put in here. Do you want blue or white?”

“White.” Morse chose easily since he was used to primarily wearing white shirts and it would be less hard to bleach any blood out if the bandages didn’t hold up. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that because the last thing he wanted to do was ruin one of Gael’s shirts, but it was easier said than done. 

Gael removed the shirt from the hanger and handed it over to Morse who accepted it with a small, grateful smile. Even just by holding it Morse could smell the faint scent of detergent that he’d come to associate with Gael. It wasn’t too soapy or astringent, but light and distantly floral and- nice. 

_ Now once you’re done investigating the shirt like a bloody piece of evidence you can finally put it on,  _ Morse chided himself. He felt a bit of tightness when he moved his arm due to the bandages, but he managed to get the shirt on and buttoned just as Gael finished putting the hanger back, changed his shoes, and closed up his locker. “There we are then. How does it feel?”

Morse pulled at the front of the shirt a bit and felt the material. It was soft and comfortable, but despite Gael’s own slim figure, Morse was smaller by a noticeable margin and the shirt showed it. “I think it looks better on you than it does on me.”

“Well I think you look fit.” Gael said and Morse looked up quickly at that, but Gael wasn’t meeting his eyes this time. “Now come on, I’m not a doctor or a surgeon but I think it’s well within my bounds to prescribe you a cup of tea.”

“Do you ever worry that joke gets old?” Morse asked with a laugh as he followed Gael out to the break room no more than a few doors down. 

Gael fished a key from the ring in his pocket and opened up the room, casting a comedic frown toward Morse. “No, never.”

Morse laughed again and Gael grinned, pushing the door open and leading the way in. The break room was fairly plain looking with a window looking out over a bit of greenery and some of the car park. It seemed that the antiseptic white of the hospital wards infiltrated this room as well, but there were various attempts to make it colourful and comfortable, various throw pillows on the two sofas and some childrens paintings hung up on the walls, all with variations of the same messages, ‘To Nurse Molly’, ‘To Nurse Sarah’, ‘To Nurse Gael’ or, occasionally misspelled ‘Gale’.

Someone had left a fresh pot of tea brewed on a small hot plate next to a stack of miscellaneous biscuit tins and a vase of flowers just on the wrong side of wilting. Gael started humming to himself as he fetched two cups from a shelf and Morse sank down onto one of the sofas, straightening out the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. He felt something in his trouser pocket and remembered the photograph Delphi had given him, how he transferred it from his coat in the ambulance. 

He hadn’t gotten a chance to properly look at it, and he didn’t then as Gael pressed a cup of tea into his hands, the sofa cushions shifting as Gael sat down next to him, holding his own cup.

The warmth of the tea cup was more comforting than the febrile warmth that he felt radiating off his skin before. It had gone down significantly over the past few minutes, and Morse thought of what Gael said about it being stress induced. Only a few minutes of sitting and talking with Gael and he was already feeling calmer. 

“So why aren’t you?” Morse asked, taking a sip of a tea. “A doctor or a surgeon, I mean. Surely you’re capable.”

Gael didn’t seem at all taken off guard by the question, but pleasantly surprised, looking at Morse over the rim of his cup before he set it down on the table in front of them, leaning back into the sofa. “We all don’t become what we’re capable of. I could ask you why you became a policeman.”

“You could,” Morse admitted. “In which case I would recount the long list of failings in my life that led to it. But that’s not an answer.”

“Fair enough.” the nurse nodded, and he folded his arms across his chest. “I was on my way to being a doctor, once upon a time, but I changed my mind. It wasn’t for me.”

“How’s that?”

Gael sighed. “I see these doctors and surgeons every day, and I have no doubt that many of them are good men with good intentions, but I don’t see the same level of care and dedication that is visible in most of the nurses. The surgeons cut you open, sew you up, and that’s the end of it. It’s vitally important, don’t get me wrong, but I wanted to do something less distant, more impactful. Whether that’s comforting the dying, the children, or, sometimes,” Gael said with a teasing smile in his eyes. “Caring for the occasional wayward detective.” He sat back up to reach his tea and found Morse looking at him strangely. “Did I say something wrong?”

Morse shook his head, thinking of the drawings on the walls, and smiled. “No. No, it was exactly right.” 

They drank their tea in silence for a moment before Gael stood up to refill his cup while Morse still nursed his own. 

“Have you got your man then?” Gael asked as he moved to sit back down. “The killer?”

Morse snorted, looking down at the watery depths of his tea cup. “ _ A  _ killer, perhaps. But not  _ the  _ killer. This isn’t over yet.” The invisible weight on his shoulders felt much heavier then as the situation set in once again. “We’re still missing the girl. If we don’t find her, she dies tomorrow.” 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

_ If you could pull the killer’s name out of a hat that would be fantastic.  _ “Just- look after the child. Maybe she’ll remember you. It could help.” 

Gael shook his head, touching Morse’s arm lightly. “I meant you, Morse.” 

Morse frowned, looking at Gael curiously, his grip on the tea cup tightening as he tried to observe the nurse’s face for any semblance of an answer. “Why do you care so much? Hardly anyone else does.” 

He almost wished he could take back what he said if only to erase the sadness on Gael’s face that followed his words. 

“You can’t seriously think that’s true.” 

Morse finished his tea and set the empty cup down. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

Gael looked as if he were at a loss for words, meeting Morse’s eyes for a tense moment before looking away, down at the floor. “Morse, I-”

The door suddenly opened, effectively cutting off Gael’s next words, and a nurse that Morse recognised from the ward stuck her head in, looking a bit concerned. “Constable Morse? You’re needed.”

“You have the most impeccable timing, Sophia,” Gael said, and Morse couldn’t quite discern whether he was being serious or not. He could have cursed her for interrupting since curiosity was now troubling him rather intensely, but instead he stood and Gael followed in suit, allowing the nurse to hold the door so they both could exit into the corridor. 

“Gael, Dr. Lowe wants you over in the children’s ward, Miranda’s about to step out for the night, he just needs someone to finish off her shift.” Sophia said as they walked, reaching a branch in the corridor and pointing down it, indicating it was where Gael should go. “We’re still on for drinks later, yeah?”

“Yes, of course.” Gael heaved a dramatic sigh. “Right, then. Well, Morse, I hope the next time I see you it’s under more favourable circumstances. Stay safe.”

“You know me.” Morse smirked, and Gael raised an eyebrow. 

“That’s what I’m worried about.” 

\------

Delphi passed Morse as he headed down the corridor to the interrogation room, almost walking past her completely before she took him by the arm, looking at him intently. 

“Have you taken a look at the photo yet?” 

“Not yet, no,” Morse shook his head, feeling for it in his pocket. “Why?”

“It wasn’t his.” Delphi said urgently. “It just came in the mail one day. I thought it would do nice as a painting reference, so I took it. It wasn’t his.”

“Wasn’t whose?”

“Jason’s.” Delphi said as if he were daft, and she released him, continuing down the corridor.

Soon she was out of sight. 

A door opened and Strange waved him over to an interrogation room, looking rather grim. “Over here, matey. Guv’s been waiting for you.”

Hazel had calmed considerably by the time Morse found himself sitting across from her in the interrogation room with Thursday at his side and Strange watching the door lest she decide to take her chances and run for it once again. Someone had clearly supervised her to the washroom so she could clean her hands off, but there was still a telltale reddish stain in some places, and Morse could clearly see dried blood underneath her fingernails. She was picking at them irritably, staring down at the tabletop with an unfocused gaze.

Morse remembered what DeBryn said about doubting that the murders were done by a woman because the bruises were too large. Hazel was tall, though, and as he watched her fuss with her nails he could see that her hands were likewise larger than one would expect. 

“Miss Ashenhurst,” Thursday began, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. Hazel ceased her fidgeting and looked up at the inspector, her young features looking hollowed and haggard. “I need you to talk to us. We can’t help you unless you help us, and the way things are looking, you’re really going to need it. You’re looking at charges of assaulting an officer, abduction, and four accounts of murder. You-”

“I didn’t kill them.” Hazel said, her voice hoarse from all of her shouting. She curled her hands into fists and turned back to the worn tabletop, the chains of her handcuffs clinking metallically. “You have to believe me.”

Thursday’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t have-”

“I believe you didn’t kill Enid Cleary and Josephine Abbott.” Morse cut in, drawing Hazel’s attention to him. He forced himself to focus in on her intense eyes and swallowed uncomfortably before he spoke. “I believe you don’t have Felicity. But I think you know who does.” 

Hazel blinked, clearly not expecting that response. “Jason. It was Jason”

Thursday tilted his head, studying her face. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

“Tell us about Tessa Varley.” Morse interjected again, shifting the tide of the questioning a little. “Who was she to you, Miss Hashenhurst?”

“She was-” Hazel bit her lip and uncurled her hands, revealing dark crescents she’d dug into them with her nails. “She was  _ everything.” _

Morse nodded, urging her to continue. 

“I loved her.” Hazel admitted bitterly. “Really loved her. Jason was no good for her but she wouldn’t hear any of it. He was nothing but a drug addict with wealthy parents, even her father saw that. He  _ confided  _ in me, told me his concerns because she wouldn’t listen. I confronted Tessa but she said he’d gotten clean. Then she started using. It was all his fault. He killed her. He made me-”

Hazel pressed her lips shut and shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“Miss Ashenhurst?” Thursday pressed, and she slammed her hands against the table, metal clanging, her expression suddenly wild. Strange surged forward but stopped short when Morse threw up a hand to stop him. He could handle this now.

“You were there the night she died.” Morse spoke calmly, relying on what he’d heard Rowan say back at the house. Then, he remembered what DeBryn had said about Tessa Varley’s death, how it was different from the others. “She was in the bath, right? Her father was out looking for her that night, so how did she end up at home?” It must have been at the Varleys’ house, otherwise Rowan wouldn’t have been there to see any of it. 

It took a moment to realise that Hazel’s following silence wasn’t obstructive. The woman was crying softly, tears slipping from beneath her pale lashes and trailing down her face. She raised a hand to wipe them away, sniffling, but no one offered her a handkerchief. 

“I found her first.” Hazel’s voice was broken when she spoke, fractured and rough. “She was on a bench in the park, high out of her wits. Track marks up and down her arms. I took her home, she was rambling all sorts of nonsense about me, about everyone and everything, really. Tallie saw us come in and I shut her in her room while I ran a bath for Tess. I thought it might sober her up a bit, and she just climbed in fully clothed. She started saying all of these horrible things, and I just- I couldn’t-”

“What did she say, Miss Ashenhurst?” Thursday asked firmly, but his eyes had softened a bit, allowing just the smallest sliver of pity for the woman now. 

Hazel wiped at her eyes and drew in a stuttering breath. “I was angry at her. I was. But she said- she said I was angry because she’d never love me the way I wanted her to. Tessa kept on  _ shouting,  _ it was all vile, poisonous words, but they weren’t hers, they couldn’t be, because she was never  _ like  _ that, and I just-” she tried to breathe again but it was more difficult now as the tears came even easier now, choking her up. “I lost control. I slapped her. She pushed me. We started fighting, and the next thing I knew I was holding her under the water and she- she- she wasn’t- she wasn’t moving, and I- oh, god-”

“Just breathe, Miss Ashenhurst. Breathe.” Thursday encouraged gently, and she put her hands to her chest, closing her eyes and attempting to even out her breaths. 

“Tallie came in and just started  _ screaming,”  _ Hazel choked out, her throat bobbing when she swallowed, and she hugged her arms against her ribs, awkwardly contorting her cuffed hands. “I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what I’d done, and I remembered I’d taken Tessa’s jacket, there was a syringe, some ampules in her pocket. Tallie wouldn’t stop crying but I managed to get her in the bathroom and closed the curtain over Tessa. I dropped two of the ampules trying to fill the syringe. Got the third. I- I told Tallie it would help her, but she started struggling, and I stabbed the needle right in her neck,” Hazel touched the point of her neck just before it met her shoulder and Morse suddenly recalled the star shaped scar he saw on Rowan’s neck in the very same spot. “I put Tallie in bed, hoped- hoped she would just think it was all a bad dream. And then-” she swallowed, shaking her head. “Then Mr. Varley came back.”

Morse could see the whole horribly scene play out in his mind’s eye, all painted out in vibrant, dreamlike colours and muted sounds. The front door opening and Ed Varley limping his way inside, running into Hazel who tried to assure him that everything was fine, that Thalia was sound asleep, that Tessa was just having a bath, everything was going to be fine-

He could see the moment Varley’s mind finally tipped over the edge, drawing back the shower curtain to see his eldest daughter lying lifeless in the bathwater, her soaked clothes weighing her down, battered arm splayed over the rim- 

“He found her.” Hazel sniffled, shoulders heaving with each deep breath she took. “So I pretended. I started screaming. Told him I found her in the park, ran her a bath, that I left her alone for just a moment to check on Tallie, that Tessa must have passed out or done it to herself, I don’t remember. Varley was half mad already but something just-  _ snapped.  _ He was saying all of these things about the river, that he needed to get her to the river, that if I didn’t help him he’d tell the police I killed her. We got her in the car and drove down to the Cherwell- it was closest. He made me drive, and the whole time he was talking about  _ Persephone,  _ like somehow he was trying to  _ explain  _ what he was doing. Everyone knew he was a pagan, but I didn’t think he took it that seriously. He had some strange hubris, this mad idea that he could bring her  _ back.  _ So he put her in the river. That was all him, I swear.”

“And Felicity Thorpe?” Thursday inquired. “Were you telling the whole truth about her?”

Hazel shook her head. “She was going off to Varley’s to pick up something for her mum, but I tried to stop her. We had a row on the street, I grabbed at her and she fell into this car, broke the window. It was easier to blame Jace, I blamed him for everything that went wrong, really, but deep down I knew it was all Varley after Tessa. Those other girls, Felicity. Jason ruined Tessa, though. I can’t forgive him for that. He killed her long before I did. But it’s Varley you want. Ed Varley.”

Morse finally removed the photograph from his pocket, his breath catching in his throat as he saw what it was. 

It was a photograph of Enid Cleary- he could tell by the birthmark on her arm- wrapped in the weeds of the river, posed just as they found her, with a few alterations. Her mouth had not yet been closed and was slightly parted, like she was trying to draw in one last breath. 

The camera flash had created a reflection in the water, and Morse could just barely make out the form of the camera reflected back on the surface, along with the face of the photographer. 

_ It just came in the mail one day.  _

Morse slid the photo over to Thursday and Hazel buried her face in her hands, refusing to look. The inspector’s sharp intake of breath told Morse he saw the same thing he did.

Edmund Varley’s face in the water, right next to Enid Cleary’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Hyacinth
> 
> Ask and you shall receive! I've been trying to work out when I was going to finally get around to some more Gael/Morse content (originally it was going to come later in the fic) but it just had to be now. I'm so glad so many of you like Gael's character, and I'm sure his co-creators (points at the two of you out there) are happy as well. Gael’s storyline will be coming to quite a dramatic point in the following chapter so keep your eyes out for that because I assume I’ll be able to update fairly quickly. For all my fellow Gael/Morse fans out there (there’s no good ship name for them, I’m sorry)...things are about to get rough before they get better. 
> 
> Also, for everyone who had theories on Morse being poisoned by various means (the incense was a popular one), those were really good and you're a lot smarter than me because doing that never really crossed my mind. It's stress! What a surprise. Acute encephalitis was a runner up to psychogenic fever/hyperthermia (I get this from time to time, it's not fun) but I didn't want to do that to poor Morse. Like my alternative was any better. He's suffering. I'm sorry, I'm fixing it. Promise!
> 
> I hope everyone is staying happy, healthy, and safe out there.


	8. Hyacinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags to include period typical homophobia and homophobic language for this chapter. The language is only in one line but I figured I'd cover my bases just to be safe. 
> 
> This chapter...it's rough.

There was nothing left for the woman to tell them, and the interrogation promptly ended with the revelation the photograph provided. Ashenhurst had no involvement in Cleary’s murder, nothing else to offer them. Thursday and Morse left Strange to finalize the details of her arrest and explain them to her, and Morse couldn’t be happier to leave that room. 

For all her honestly, there was a discomforting level of deception that ran beneath it, and Morse couldn’t help but think that her words needed to be taken with more than one grain of salt. Still, it made a grim sort of sense that it was Hazel, not Varley, that had killed Tessa. They could never prove that he did, and perhaps it was simply because he  _ didn’t.  _

“What do you make to Hazel Ashenhurst’s story?” Thursday asked once he’d situated himself back behind his desk and began setting his pipe up. Morse elected to remain standing for the briefest of moments before the ground began to list ever so slightly, as if they were in a poorly lit ship’s cabin. He took a few unsteady steps forward and seized the back of the chair, easing himself into it and hoping Thursday was too occupied with his tobacco to witness that short ordeal. “We’ve seen this sort of thing before, a woman killing the person she loves. It wouldn’t be uncommon.”

“She’s definitely trying to make herself look better.” Morse said after a moment of consideration, clasping his hands together and staring intently down at them. “DeBryn said in his report that Tessa Varley had marks on her throat from her attacker. Hazel didn’t just hold her under the water, she strangled her to death. Her hands must have kept slipping which is why there were multiple bruises. She-” he shook his head, taking a breath. “She would have tried over and over again to kill her. It was painful. Brutal.”

“Well it won’t be prison for the likes of her,” Thursday lit his pipe. “She’ll have to go through an evaluation but it’s Broadmoor for her, no doubt about it.”

Morse didn’t want to think about Broadmoor, so he simply made a small noise of agreement, shifting and adjusting his coat. He winced as he jostled his arm, a small shock of pain snaking down his upper arm before leaving a dull throb behind where the cut was. 

Thursday gave him a look over and frowned, clearly not liking what he was seeing. “You look like you should still be in hospital.” 

“I’m fine, sir.” Morse insisted, stopping his hand from moving up to rub his arm so as to not expose the lie.

“Are you?” Thursday arched a dark, greying eyebrow. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

“I had lunch with Gael- Nurse Edwards.” 

“Not today you haven’t.” 

Morse didn’t have it in him to go through with this same argument for the umpteenth time. He sat forward and pushed the photograph forward to Thursday in an attempt to refocus the conversation on something more pertinent at the moment than a stale chastisement. “What can we do about Varley?”

Thursday took another draw on his pipe, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, letting Morse know he saw right through his distraction, but conceded with a sigh. “We’ll bring him in for questioning. Make it look like we need his help on something. No fuss.”

The door to the office opened and Bright marched in with Strange a few steps behind, lingering behind the smaller man as unobtrusively as he could be with his stature. 

“Sergeant Strange here has informed me that Miss Ashenhurst is not our man- I mean- well-” Bright blinked and waved his hand sharp and dismissively. “Point being, our second killer is still out there. This Varley character, apparently? The first victim’s father?”

“That’s right, sir.” Morse said, turning in his seat to address the superintendent. “I took a look back at some of the files and it turns out Enid Cleary was employed at a shop just adjacent to Varley’s in the Covered Market. Their paths must have crossed at some point or another. We’ve nothing substantial on Josie Abbot but I’m certain that we’ll find a connection once we start digging.”

“And Felicity Thorpe’s mother made regular purchases from Varley’s shop,” Thursday added, setting his pipe aside. “Constable Trewlove and I had a word with the parents just earlier and apparently Miss Thorpe was in the habit of picking up her mother’s orders at his shop from time to time.”

Strange moved from behind Bright and settled against the nearest wall, frowning darkly. “I don’t understand what they’d have to do with his daughter, though. I mean- why’s he have to kill them? It’s like- it’s like he’s killing his daughter, isn’t it? That’s who he sees in them. So why’s he doing it?”

The sergeant’s question hung heavily in the air alongside the tobacco smoke. Morse had been asking himself the same exact question for the past hour. Sixty minutes since they’d left Hazel Ashenhurst in the interrogation room for Strange to take her downstairs to lockup. Sixty minutes since he’d first seen the face of Edmund Varley in the water. 

It didn’t add up. He knew the man. Ed Varley was someone who had been destroyed by grief and loss, gutted like an old house and left with only the barest of supports keeping him standing. He’d lost his wife to illness, he’d lost his eldest to Hazel Ashenhurst’s madness and rage, and he’d lost his youngest out of simple neglect. Varley’s grief became his world, and everything around him became defined only by what had been taken for him, erasing Thalia until she too was lost to him in more ways than one. That little girl was gone. Replaced by Rowan. She had lost the same things as her father. The difference was that she lost her home, her youth, her name. Her father lost his mind instead. 

And there was the matter of his leg. But at the same time, there wasn’t. There was nothing to say that it was as crippled as Varley made it out to be. For all they knew, that was just a complete ruse, a red herring to throw them off his scent. But if that was true, what else was a lie? Morse couldn’t help but think of Varley’s unnerving moments of clarity and truthfulness. Were those cracks in his facade, or simply the last surviving pieces of his former self rising to the surface? Was it just madness that made him kill? Were the ghosts of his daughter too real for him? 

Morse took the photograph between his fingers, holding it before him. It was no mystery why Delphi had chosen to keep this for herself. Despite the grotesqueness of the killing, there was an element of artistic macabre that she must have found her inspiration in. Enough to fill a wall with sketches. Enough to take to a canvas and reinvent it in her own image- and Millais’ of course. 

Persephone in the river. Rising and falling between worlds at the turn of the seasons for all eternity. The hand reaching out to reclaim her, to bring her back into the world-

_ To bring her back from the dead.  _

_ “Persephone.”  _ Morse whispered, the word falling numbly over his lips. The realization felt strangely physical, a sharp jolt knifing through his body and mind as his eyes widened and the photograph nearly fluttered from his hand. 

There was a method to Varley's madness after all. A method, an entire blueprint, all laid out in myth. Hazel even told them so, but it had been lost in the rest of her story. Varley rambling about  _ Persephone. _

_ “He had some strange hubris, this mad idea that he could bring her back.”  _ Hazel had said. 

_ How had he missed that? _

“It’s Persephone.” Morse said once he noticed that all eyes had fallen upon him now. He swallowed and rose to his feet, placing the photograph back down on the desk. “That’s what he’s doing. That’s what Hazel Ashenhurst was trying to tell us.”

“What’s this?” Bright questioned, surging forward to snatch up the photograph for himself as if he too might have the same revelation as Morse by staring at it. “Persephone?”

“That’s the old myth about the seasons, isn’t it?” Thursday frowned, then raised his eyebrow once again when he saw the surprised look Morse had given him. “More under my hat than nits, lad.” 

Strange looked lost at sea among them. “What’s that have to do with the murders?” 

“Varley’s taking inspiration from the story of Persephone.” Morse explained, feeling a rush of adrenaline and restlessness. “Ashenhurst described him as a pagan, but it’s further than that. He believes there’s a truth to Greek mythology. To the myth of Persephone. In the autumn she descends to the underworld and she rises in the spring, and the equinoxes are marked by her passage. So Varley sends a girl down in the autumn-”

“-and thinks his daughter will come back in the spring.” Thursday finished. “And when he sees another girl, someone else who looks like his Tessa-”

“-he thinks it’s gone wrong.” Morse nodded. “That he’s gotten the wrong person back. So he keeps on trying.” 

A phone rang in the outer office and footsteps sounded as someone rushed to answer it. Then, another one, much closer, perhaps at Morse’s own desk. 

“And he’ll never stop.” Bright let the photo fall from his hands. His shock was visible for only the briefest moments before he straightened his back and stood resolute, turning sharply to Strange. “Sergeant, I want you to go-”

The phone on Thursday’s desk rang this time and the door flew open. Trewlove rushed in, clinging to the doorframe to steady herself as she nearly pitched forward in her haste.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the constable said breathlessly, a strand of hair escaping from underneath her cap. “Sir, you  _ really _ need to answer that phone.” 

Morse stared wide eyed at Trewlove before turning to Thursday who had already snatched the receiver up from the base and was holding it to his ear. His expression darkened with every passing second until his eyes were nothing more than spots of coal and the look on his face was as grim as night. 

“Understood. We’re on our way.” Thursday slammed the phone down and moved faster than Morse had seen him move, grabbing his coat off from the back of his chair and trying to wrestle it on as quick as he could.

“What is it, Thursday?” Bright snapped, eyes darting between his detectives, demanding someone would give him an answer. Morse felt himself doing the same. Just moments ago they were about to arrange for Varley to be picked up and now-

Well,  _ something  _ was happening. 

“It’s Kidlington,” Thursday barked out, reaching for his hat. The coal in his eyes had lit into a fire now, one that signaled trouble was ahead. “Those bastards decided to raid that club on Banbury Road and now they’re about to have a riot on their hands.” 

\------

Morse made for the driver’s side of the car before Thursday flung an arm out to stop him, keys dangling from his other hand. 

“I can drive, sir.” Morse protested, reaching for the keys, but they flew out of his reach when Thursday moved toward the door. 

“Not with that arm of yours you’re not, son,” Thursday climbed into the car, forcing Morse to begrudgingly take the passenger seat. “If I had it my way you wouldn’t even be coming at all, but we need all hands on deck if this is going to get resolved quickly.”

They peeled out on the street following the trail of fellow officers, klaxons and lights turning on one by one until it was nearly deafening. Morse gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to the side of his head, feeling the dull throb of his newest headache. It was with sheer willpower alone that it seemed to subside to the point where he could ignore it. 

“What exactly happened, sir?” Morse asked, watching as buildings and streets blurred past, red and blue lights flashing in the late afternoon light. “At this club, I mean.”

“Off duty officers decided to go over and hassle some patrons, things got rough and they called in reinforcements.” Thursday replied darkly. “Their own.”

“But it’s out of their jurisdiction, isn’t it?” 

“Which is why we need to go out and stop this.” Thursday growled. “It’s a right cock up and no mistake. Those prejudiced pricks over at Kidlington have had their eyes on that place for a long time with nothing to do about it until now. You’d think they were London coppers, the way they have it out for homosexuals.”

Morse looked over at that, finally understanding just what was so significant about this pub. Then, he felt concern rise, and he very nearly didn’t ask his question, unsure of how the old man would respond to it. 

“That’s not what we’re doing, is it?” he asked with a sudden dryness in his throat, making it almost difficult to speak. He’d never had much cause to think about it before, but Morse wasn’t sure he would be able to go in there and defend the Kidlington officers and their prejudice. It wouldn’t be right. He just- couldn’t. 

Thursday’s expression just barely verged on shock, but it softened in an instant once he took a look at Morse’s face. He shook his head as if Morse had said something truly ridiculous, tightening his grip on the steering wheel and turning to stare dead ahead at the street. “As far as Mr. Bright and I are concerned, the only thing we’re doing is giving Kidlington what for. Don’t you worry, lad, it’s those people who are under our protection, not the officers.” 

Something in Thursday’s voice convinced Morse that it was much more than divisional rivalry behind his stance, and it was comforting enough. 

“Good.” Morse said, and they left it at that. 

\------

It was mere minutes before they arrived on the scene, and Thursday stopped the car in the same crooked, haphazard way that the other officers had done, all of the vehicles close together in a disorganized group. Before Morse could even begin to wonder why, he got his answer, looking out of the windscreen at the chaos outside of the building. 

The brawl had moved outdoors and onto the street, officers scuffling with the patrons under the light of the street lamps and dimming sunset. The redness of the sky cast a surreal, bloody hue over the stones and people, painting it as something out of a terrible dream. Morse could barely hear Bright’s sharp voice barking out orders over the shouting of the swarm of clashing bodies and fists. 

It was unlike anything Morse had seen.

Thursday cursed and slammed the door behind him as he rushed out of the car and over to their superior, Morse in tow close behind him. As he looked around the street he could already see officers wrangling people into police vehicles, cuffs flashing in the low light. One Kidlington officer stumbled away from the crowd, nightstick falling from his hand as he brought it up to his face, blood spilling through his fingers. 

A quick assessment was all it took for Morse to realise with a sick, pitting feeling in his stomach that there were no more than two dozen civilians out on the street, fighting back against an overwhelming number of uniformed officers. Strange was already in the fray, pulling an officer out of the mess and throwing him none to kindly onto the ground, shouting at him to stay down as he kicked his club away into the gutter where it lay among dead leaves. 

Bright was saying something but Morse couldn’t quite bring himself to focus in and listen. As he kept his attention on the crowd, he began to catch flashes of a familiar face closer to the edge. Brief glimpses of black hair between flying arms and the dark uniforms of officers. 

His mouth went dry and panic began to seize his limbs, locking him in place so he could do nothing but stare. 

_ It couldn’t be. _

The combination of dread and curiosity was what finally made Morse take that first step away from the CID officers awaiting orders, and the noise of the fight began to fade into a drone until there was one single voice rising above it- the only voice that Morse could hear. The only voice that mattered. 

_ “Get the fuck off of me!”  _ the man shouted, kicking back at an officer that had grabbed him around the waist and was attempting to cart him off to a waiting police car. He suddenly wrenched himself forward and freed himself from the hold, throwing an elbow back that caught the officer square in the nose. Turning around to see what he had done, Morse was finally able to see his face clearly, and his fear was confirmed. 

_ Gael.  _

_ What the hell was he doing here?  _

The second the question formed, the answer was already there waiting for it. 

But it wasn’t important now. Morse knew that the only thing he needed to do was close the distance between himself and Gael and get the man out of there before something happened to him. 

To hell with waiting for orders. This was  _ Gael.  _

“Gael.” the name fell from Morse’s lips so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d spoken it. He tried to raise his voice to a shout, but it took several attempts as panic constricted his throat.  _ Gael. Gael. Gael.  _ “GAEL!” 

Thursday looked between Morse and the crowd, now seeing what he saw. “Morse- MORSE-!”

Morse didn’t remember making the decision to run. Thursday shouted his name, grabbing at him to hold him back, but Morse was too fast for Thursday, his scuffed shoes striking against the pavement as he rushed toward the fray, heart pounding wildly in his chest. “GAEL!” 

Someone was shouting for Strange, trying to send him after Morse, but the sergeant was too occupied with another officer to respond in time. 

Before he knew it, Morse made his way into the brawl, pushing through to reach Gael. Even as an elbow struck the centre of his back and a fist grazed the back of his head, that remained the only coherent thought in his mind. He shouted the man’s name one more time, and that one finally seemed to reach him. Gael swung around, looking frantically for the source of the voice.

Then, his eyes settled on Morse. 

As Morse fought to work his way past the small group of people that separated them, he could little more than watch as Gael’s expression was consumed by shock.

“Morse, what are you doing here?” Gael’s eyes were wild as he finally began to struggle toward Morse, his hand extended out to him. Within moments they had reached each other, Morse frantically grabbing onto Gael’s arms, the other man’s hands finding their way to his shoulders, holding him tight as those impossibly blue eyes stared back into his own, filled to the brim with alarm. “What are you doing here?!”

“I-” Morse could think of multiple answers, starting with the fact that it was his  _ job,  _ yet the only thing that made it out of his mouth was, “You. I’m here for you.”

That was it. The only reason he’d done something incredibly stupid as running into a fight like he had. Because it was Gael. 

Because Morse  _ cared.  _

Gael blinked. “What?”

“I saw you and-” Morse swallowed and tightened his grip on Gael’s arms, tugging him along as they began to push their way out of the crowd. With any luck, Kidlington would recognize he was an officer and let them pass, but he was beginning to doubt that would be the case. “- I had to get you out!”

They finally stumbled out of the fringes of the fight and onto the glass littered sidewalk, somehow on the complete other side of the crowd from where Morse could see the Cowley officers engaging with their foul cohorts. Gael grabbed his hand, and the surprise of it stilled Morse and caused him to look up at the nurse who was still staring at him, something unreadable on his face. 

“You ran into a riot,  _ unarmed,  _ to ‘get me out’.” Gael shook his head, exhaling sharply in disbelief, but there was a small smile beginning to flourish on his face, aggravating his split lip. “Oh, you  _ ridiculous  _ man-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Morse blurted out, interrupting him. He looked down at their still joined hands and when he met Gael’s eyes again, Morse saw the smile fall from his face, a pained look entering his features and joining the bruise that was beginning to form on his temple. He let go of Morse’s hand, letting his own fall to his side. Morse didn’t need to spell it out. Gael knew exactly what he was asking him. 

There was only one explanation for why Gael was there. It shouldn’t have been all too surprising- after all, Gael had told Morse about Sophia…but not  _ him. _

It wasn’t meant to be an accusation, it wasn’t meant to be anything other than a simple question, but it was the furthest thing from simple. 

All those months they knew each other. All that time since they’d become friends. Nearly half a year had gone by and- and not a word about it. 

_ Why didn’t you tell me?  _ sounded far too close to  _ Why didn’t you trust me? _

Gael looked torn, and when he opened his mouth Morse wasn’t sure that his next words were going to be anything close to the answer he wanted, but before they could even be spoken, rough hands seized his arms and tore Morse away, throwing him back into a light post. 

Pain lanced all the way up his spine and Morse wheezed as the wind was knocked from him. He hardly had time to recover as he doubled from a punch that landed in his gut, sending him down to his knees, glass crunching underneath his weight. Morse groaned and clutched at his torso, trying to get back to his feet, but he was roughly pushed back down and he went sprawling on the pavement, sharp glass digging through his coat and borrowed shirt. 

_ So much for them recognizing him as a policeman.  _

“Stay down, queer,” the officer growled at Morse, and Gael began shouting something incomprehensible, struggling against the officers that grabbed him. Soon, the noise began to take on form, and Morse was pretty sure that Gael was yelling his name. 

One of the officers kicked Gael’s legs out from under him and threw him down on the ground, flat on his chest, wrenching his arms behind his back to cuff him. Gael wriggled and thrashed like a fish on a hook, trying to get loose, but the handcuffs snapped on despite his best attempts. 

Morse tried to rise once more before the officer grabbed his arms, fingers digging into the cut and eliciting a pained yelp from him as he was manhandled onto his front just like Gael, someone else coming up to help cuff him. He heard the telltale sound of the cuffs latching open and Morse summoned what remained of his strength to try and pull his arms free just as Gael had, hoping that just maybe he’d have more success- 

“OI!” Strange yelled, barreling down the sidewalk toward them. “Oi, you bastards, he’s one of ours!” 

The hands restraining Morse were gone in an instant and Strange fell to his knees beside Morse and hauled him up, brushing glass from his coat as he helped Morse stand. “Are you alright, matey?”

Morse couldn’t even begin to answer that. He leaned heavily against the lamppost, gathering his breath and ignoring the various bursts of pain across his body. Then, he looked toward Gael- Gael who was being dragged to his feet by the Kidlington officers, dragged  _ away-  _

“NO!” Morse shouted, sheer adrenaline forcing him forward, and he began to run toward Gael once again, ducking past the hands that tried to stop him.

Gael realized what he was doing in an instant and shook his head violently. “No, Morse, just GO! You’re going to get-”

_ ‘Hurt’  _ must have been the next word he was going to say, but he didn’t get the chance to utter it as it was in that moment that the stray nightstick connected with Morse’s head. He hit the ground, blinded and disoriented by the sharp shock of pain, and thought he heard Gael screaming. 

Morse could vaguely make out Strange’s voice somewhere above him before hands seized him under his arms and hauled him upright for the second time in as many minutes, rushing him away to somewhere much safer. 

A Cowley constable ran up and Strange said something to him, motioning after the officers that had taken Gael away, the constable went after them with a nod. 

“Gael…” it sounded too slurred to make sense, but Strange seemed to pick up on what Morse was trying to say.

“It’s alright, matey,” Strange assured him, adjusting his hold on Morse so his good arm was slung over the sergeant’s shoulders and Strange alone was able to keep him on his feet. “I’ve sent Thompson after him now, we’ll make sure your friend comes back with us. But right now we need to get you some help.”

Morse could barely feel the ground beneath him, and the lights of the lamps and cars swam dizzyingly before his eyes as Strange dragged him away, his vision filled with blurry swatches of colour. Morse’s mouth tasted of copper- tinny, metallic, and bloody, and his ears rang all too sharply. But Strange’s reassurance had cut through it all and somehow reached the part of him that was able to process anything other than  _ pain.  _

A new set of hands closed around his arms and Morse felt himself falling into the woolly material of someone’s coat. A coat that smelled like tobacco and candles and detergent. 

Morse’s mind seemed to latch onto those details, something so reminiscent of  _ safe.  _

It was then that the pain finally engulfed him and everything faded to black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: (title pending)
> 
> In this house we hold a grudge against Kidlington from s2 and now use them as an enemy to Cowley. Anyway *breathes* THAT HAPPENED. The angst monster made a surprise reappearance and...yeah. But don't worry, things are significantly improved with Morse and Gael in the next chapter. I promise everything will be okay. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to take this time to thank/shoutout imaginationtherapy, guardianoffun, Mud_Lark, Hekate1308, and Robin_Fai, a few of my absolute favourite writers here on AO3. They're all amazing writers with such great fics that I've been reading over and over the past few weeks and hopefully one day I'll get on their level. You're all fantastic. Seriously. Please check out their works. 
> 
> I'm thoroughly upset I lost my tumblr password a few months back and I cba to make a new account but in reorganizing my bookshelf earlier I found some of my old notebooks with passwords so fingers crossed. God I miss tumblr. But I'm glad I have this site.


	9. Calliope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse/Gael shippers....the time has come. Also, Thursday is the queer ally we all deserve. 
> 
> [brief homophobic language in one sentence yet again]
> 
> Update on a previous issue: I found my tumblr password!! Check me out at "endeavourson" for sporadic Endeavour content, and covers, fancasts, and manips for these fics.

Thursday drew in a laboured breath as he looked around the near deserted street, awash in the dying light of the sun and headlights of the scattered police vehicles. Bits of shattered glass from bottles and such littered the pavement, catching the feeble rays of light that could still reach them and glinting among the stones and other detritus. The late afternoon blush of the sky had faded as time went by and was steadily replaced by dark, bulging clouds. 

A light breeze swept through the street, sending husks of dead leaves skittering across the pavement until they hit the edge of the kerb and were relegated to reside in the gutter forevermore. Leaves were piling up over a police issue club that lay on the edge of the street as if trying to conceal it in their shame. 

_ This was not supposed to happen,  _ Thursday thought with a sigh, shaking his head and lifting his hat to run his hand over his head. Drunken off-duty officers had done their fair share of misdeeds in the past, but  _ nothing  _ like this. Not in all his days. It was a mistake that was going to cost something big for the instigators and their nick. 

Every thought of  _ ‘It could’ve been worse’  _ did little to comfort him.  _ It  _ shouldn’t have happened at all. 

Once the Kidlington superintendent showed up on scene, Bright wasted no time in marching over to read him the riot act and his trilling voice could still be heard berating the man from across the street. Thursday would have smiled at the sight, but there were more grave things at hand that overwhelmed any urge to do so. After all, Felicity Thorpe had hours to live. The sun was setting, and night was upon them.

Midnight marked the equinox. After that- 

Well, the inspector didn’t want to think about that. They’d already failed one girl, turning a blind eye as Abbott met her end. Failed her and failed Morse who had tried so hard to make them listen.

Thursday’s paternal instinct forced him to turn around and glance into the backseat of the Jag where Morse was blanketed in Strange and the inspector’s coats, one covering him, the other bundled carefully under his head like a makeshift pillow. Medics had shown up not long after the fight settled and given Morse a once over. Thursday swore his heart stopped when Morse collapsed in his arms, but the man was awake in mere seconds, a bit dazed and groggy, but not as awful as Fred feared. He and Strange bundled Morse into the car after the medics looked over him and made their brief diagnosis. 

Standing by and watching them catalogue and explain Morse’s injuries, unveiling one after another, was what made Fred Thursday think for the umpteenth time that he was getting too old for a job like this. The worst of them was just a concussion, and a very mild one at that, miraculously, but he was certain that a few more of his hairs had gone grey in the minutes before the medics arrived. 

When Strange told Thursday what happened he tried to sound calm, nonchalant, unbothered. _“Took a nightstick to the head.” _he said simply, but the effort only lasted for so long before Strange’s large shoulders slumped under the concern once they set Morse down in the car. The sergeant had taken in a long breath and drew his hand across his face, eyes darkening. _“I don’t know what else happened before I got to him.” _

But the medics seemed to have an inkling. As they noted the contusions on Morse’s chest and abdomen, marks on his arms, nicks on his hands, and the spots of red where his bandage had bled through, Thursday gained a fairly accurate picture of what the Kidlington devils had done. 

And to top it all off, Morse was running a fever. Of course he hadn’t elected to divulge that information. If he even knew himself. 

The brief loss of consciousness, the medics explained, was likely due to his body and mind being overwhelmed more than the concussion itself. With luck, any symptoms would fade over the next few hours. 

Thursday thought that proclamation would elicit some form of a response from Morse, but he didn’t seem to give it much attention, his eyes darting back and forth in thought as he stared at the ground. He couldn’t blame the lad. Not after what happened. Nearly getting arrested- and in such a manner- had no doubt brought back bad memories for him. But Thursday suspected that wasn’t the entire case. No, this thought induced silence most certainly had something to do with Gael Edwards. 

As Thursday looked at Morse in the car, he could tell he was awake, thankfully, but every so often some odd expression would cross his face and he’d shake his head almost imperceptibly, as if dismissing a thought. He was working out something in that mind of his, something Thursday was not privy to. He could only make his guesses. 

Morse had asked about Edwards before allowing himself to be settled into the Jag as everyone finished up at the scene. Well,  _ asked  _ meaning he’d uttered the man’s name with an imploring tone to it. Thursday assured him that the nurse would be fine, and likely all charges would end up being dropped against those unlawfully arrested. Bright would be having a word with Division as soon as he had a phone in his hands, and everything would be sorted. For the meantime, Edwards and the others would be coming into CID to make their statements. 

Thursday sighed heavily and turned back to look for Bright, hoping to find him and ask to be dismissed so he could Morse back to the nick, get him settled on the couch in his office before he ran into any more trouble- but instead he was met with two Kidlington sergeants walking across his path, heading back to their vehicle.

One of them caught Thursday’s eye and whistled, nudging his partner. “Well, well, if it isn’t Thursday the lunger coming to the aid of the fairies. That’s a sight innit. Where’s that bagman of yours, then, eh? Heard he got his bell rung pretty good.”

They both began to chuckle.

That did it. 

Thursday moved before he even thought of doing it, snapping forward and wrapping his fist around the collar of the sergeant’s collar and pulling it tight. The man’s face went red as he gasped for breath, hands scrambling to free himself, and his partner lunged toward the inspector but Strange was there in an instant, seizing his arms and twisting them both behind his back. 

“I don’t think so, matey,” Strange warned, and the sergeant ceased his struggling. 

“Let-” the other officer began to choke out, but Thursday glowered at him, their faces just centimeters away. 

“Oh, I’m a lunger alright,” Thursday growled, feeling an angry warmth spread up his neck, and he clenched his fist tighter around the shirt collar, twisting it ever so slightly. “But I got shot in the chest and coughed the damn bullet out, lad, so keep talking. I’d be glad to show you what kind of a lunger you’re dealing with. Any one of those people your lot went after today, my bagman included, they’re worth ten of you, you hear me, sergeant?”

The officer let out some form of a croak to indicate he’d heard loud and clear. 

Thursday flung him aside and he stumbled before righting himself, massaging his throat and gagging. “Crazy old man,” he gasped, taking a step away from him. “You’re insane!”

“And you’re nothing more than the scum I scrape off my boots at the end of the day.” Thursday shot back, taking a threatening step towards him that had the sergeant scrambling back another foot. “Get out of my sight!” 

Strange released the man he’d been holding and the two ran off as fast as they were able to, getting into their car without so much as another word. 

_ That went well.  _

\------

It was a few moments after Morse woke up before the dull throbbing in the side of his head caught up with him and he stifled a groan, pushing himself up in an attempt to gain his bearings. A cloth bag full of half melted ice tumbled from his head, leaving an uncomfortable chill behind and a slight dampness to his hair. His abdomen protested the movement, but he managed fine enough. To Morse’s surprise, the room didn’t swim and sway before his eyes, but remained somewhat steady as he righted himself, taking in the desk, chairs, and dim setting of the furthest lamp, casting light over the drawn shades on the windows. A comfortable and familiar wool coat that had been tucked up to his neck like a blanket fell as he sat up on the small couch he’d been laid out across, his own coat draped across the back, realizing fairly quickly that he was in Thursday’s office. 

The inspector was nowhere to be seen, but Morse could hear muffled conversation through the thin glass that made up the window to the anteroom and picked out his voice among Bright and Trewlove’s. The conversation was too muffled for Morse to make out anything of significance and his fruitless eavesdropping ended at that. He leaned back on the couch and located the fallen bag of ice, pressing it against his forehead and letting out a soft sigh as it seemed to chase away any remaining feverish sensations, replacing it with pleasant coolness. 

He didn’t recall making the decision to fall asleep, but it was likely that his own body made the choice for him and sent him off into a fitful doze that had been eluding him for quite some time. Morse remembered sitting down on the couch per Thursday’s orders once they’d returned to the station, deciding it was beyond him to argue with the inspector at that moment, then- nothing. 

Morse silently cursed himself and threw the ice pack aside, rising to his feet to check the small clock on Thursday’s desk. Fueled by the sudden urge to see how much time he’d carelessly wasted  _ sleeping  _ when Felicity Thorpe was slated to die in hours, Morse grabbed the clock and spun it around to see the time. The floor seemed to drop out beneath him, mimicking the sinking sensation in his empty stomach. 

It was a few minutes gone midnight. He’d been asleep for the better part of  _ five hours _ . 

But what that minute hand just past the hour told him was more than the time, it was a death sentence. 

It was past midnight. It was the equinox. 

And they’d yet to recover Felicity. 

The door to the office opened and Morse spun around to see Thursday entering, regarding Morse with a surprised yet relieved expression on his weathered face. The inspector gave him a short nod and stepped around to his desk searching for something in his drawers. 

“I didn’t expect to see you on your feet so soon, Morse,” Thursday remarked, and glass clinked as he produced a tumbler and a square decanter of amber alcohol- whisky, Morse hazarded a guess. “You ought to be laid up with that bag of ice on your head.”

“It melted.” Morse shrugged by way of an excuse. “I’m fine, sir.”

Thursday arched a doubtful eyebrow. “You were concussed, son. That’s your definition of fine, is it?”

“I  _ feel  _ fine.” Morse defended, and there was an element of truth to it. When he touched the side of his head he only felt a slight tenderness and the aching had gone down considerably in the past few minutes alone. His abdomen was slightly sore from the fist that was driven into his gut, but he’d handled worse. 

“It might do you some good to look up the word ‘malingerer’, you know. You’re the exact opposite of it. Whether that’s a virtue or a failing is beyond me.” Thursday poured a single finger of whisky from his decanter and handed the glass over to Morse. “Here, now get that down you.” 

Morse took it with a skeptical look. “Not exactly medicinal.”

“It is if I say it is.” Thursday grumbled with that infallible paternal logic of his.

Morse downed a mouthful of the alcohol, the whisky leaving a warm burn behind as he swallowed it. He finished the glass in the second sip and returned it, feeling slightly more whole than he had a moment ago. Medicinal or not, it seemed to partly do the trick. 

“Is there any news on Varley?” Morse asked, taking a seat in the chair he’d occupied just hours before. There was another question he would have elected to ask instead, but he forced it back for the time being, trying to keep his mind clear and focussed back on the case. “Or Felicity?”

“I sent Strange by Varley’s shop and residence to search him out,” Thursday said as he returned the decanter back to the drawer, sliding it shut with a  _ click.  _ “Shop was closed up for the night, and there was no answer at the house, but according to Strange there were lights on. His car was in the drive but there’s a truck registered under Varley’s name that he uses for the market that’s not accounted for. Patrol is looking for him now.”

“It could be too late.” Morse said hollowly, and Thursday gave him a chastising look. 

“That’s no way to think, Morse.” Thursday shook his head. “We have units out looking for Varley and Thorpe, patrols on the riverbanks. We’ll find them.”

Morse could have scoffed at whatever semblance of comfort or reassurance that sentiment was meant to offer. They’d run out of time, simple as that, and it was a coin toss as to whether  _ finding  _ Varley or Felicity meant that she would still be alive when that happened. And what was Morse doing? Nothing. Nothing, when he should’ve been doing what he did last year. Something. Something that wasn’t being holed up in the station with ice and whisky. Anything would be better than the increasing sensation of uselessness that was descending upon him with the weight of the sky. 

“I need to be out there.” he said adamantly, getting to his feet and grabbing his coat, putting it on with as much care as he could manage in his haste. “I’m no use to anyone just sitting here when a woman’s life is on the line.”

“You’re in no fit state to chase after Varley,” Thursday countered, moving to block Morse’s path to the door. “You’ve run yourself sick working this case, Morse. We’re doing all we can at this point.”

“If that were true we wouldn’t still be standing here, would we?” Morse snapped back, striding irritably to the other side of the room. “I’m fine, I’m standing, I’m breathing, I can  _ help-” _

“Well there’s something I think you need to sort out before you get too keen on heading out,” Thursday said with a touch of sincerity in his voice that seemed to ease Morse’s ire in an instant. “Edwards is in the third interrogation room giving his statement. I spoke to him, he asked how you were. It seems to me like you two have some things to talk over.”

Morse sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, closing his eyes. He had been trying not to think of Gael in the past few minutes, trying to keep his head clear of the distraction, but his thoughts returned to him in an instant. He should have been thinking about Felicity Thorpe. Instead, his mind insisted on presenting him with the last sight he’d had of the man. Gael being dragged away in handcuffs, the way he shouted when Morse was struck down. 

And there was Morse himself, the blind panic that seized him when he saw Gael in the fight, and nothing else in the world seemed to make sense other than the fact that he had to reach him, get him to safety- 

It seemed they were fated to continue the way they began, continually trying to save each other. Whether it was Mason Gull, crooked coppers, blades or fists, Morse realized that they seemed to be  _ there  _ for each other. Gael’s presence had become so strangely constant in his life, always there, even if just in his periphery. He’d been there after Mason Gull, he’d been there after the bank, after Joan left, after Hazel’s knife- but he’d also been there in those quiet afternoons where they needed nothing more than company and crosswords, and the mundane life outside of shootings and hospitals seemed all the more bearable, that much more manageable. 

Because Gael was in it. 

And seized with that thought, Morse threw himself into the breach. 

Thursday was right, that he and Gael were certainly slated to have a talk, but Morse found himself almost  _ afraid  _ to do so. Not because of Gael himself, but because of the sudden uncertainty of whatever it was inside him that had now made itself present in such an obvious way that Morse realized it had been there much longer than he thought. It just remained trapped under the surface, locked away so he wouldn’t have to face it. 

It was so much easier to confront killers than his own feelings. 

But Morse knew he couldn’t leave the station without seeing Gael. Something told him that if he did, he would regret it. 

\------

PC Thompson had just finished taking Gael’s statement by the time Morse found himself idling outside of the door to the interrogation room, staring through the wire laced glass from an angle where only Thompson could see him rather than Gael. Thompson rose out of his seat and Morse rapped his knuckle against the glass once, alerting the constable to his presence. He nodded and said a few words to Gael, informing him that Morse was there. Thompson left the door propped open as he departed, giving Morse a short nod before heading out on his way. Now, with the door wide open, there was nowhere to hide without looking foolish, and Morse moved into full view, hesitating in the doorway. 

Morse’s heart stuttered uncomfortably in his chest when he saw Gael seated at that steel table, lithe fingers curled around a cup of tea someone had been kind enough to offer him. The steam curled up into the tepid air of the interrogation room- not necessarily cold, but at the point where it could most certainly do with more warmth. The peeling soft green paint reminded Morse of the colour of soap bars, and the shade somehow seemed to reflect the limbo of the room’s temperature. 

He hadn’t noticed under Gael’s jacket before, but he was wearing the dark blue shirt that had been in his locker. It was a ridiculous detail to fixate on, but it seemed to reinstate at least a small modicum of normalcy. Morse took a deep breath, steeling himself as he finally stepped into the room. 

Gael’s eyes settled on him and Morse tried to ignore the way his breath hitched in his throat as he saw the darkening bruise on Gael’s temple and the cut on his lip, cleaned of blood but visible enough. Whatever Morse himself looked like was beyond him, but Gael’s expression gave him a fairly accurate estimate. 

“You should’ve stayed in hospital.” was all Gael said in the time it took for Morse to close the door behind him and take a seat opposite the man at the table. 

“So I’ve been told,” Morse tried for as much of a wry smile as he could, but it felt empty as his mouth simply twitched in acknowledgement. “How are you?”

“Well I’m not in handcuffs so I suppose that’s a start.” Gael snorted, looking down at the cup of tea in his hands before facing Morse again, regret written across his pale face. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

So they were getting right to it then. Morse rested his forearms on the table, wringing his hands together as he readied himself for what was likely about to be a rather intense conversation. “When exactly were you planning on telling me, then?”

Gael drew in a shaky breath before releasing it, his shoulders falling as the tension leached out of them. “I’ve been trying to recently. I tried earlier at the hospital before Sophia came in. And the other day after your concert. But the timing was never right.”

Morse thought back to the hazy night of the concert, Mariella Laurent’s failed attempts at flirtation, the conversation as they waited for the bus. 

_ “There’s someone,” Gael said. “But I’m afraid they’re a bit oblivious about it at the moment. And, if I’m wrong about them, it could mean an incredible amount of trouble.” _

_ “She’s not married, is she?”  _

_ “Oh, no, I’m afraid it’s much worse than that.”  _

He began to steadily realize that this was something they’d been dancing around for quite some time now, dancing without ever determining what kind it was, the melody behind it, or who would be leading, resulting in a confusing mess of communication and poor circumstance. 

“Worse than being married.” Morse echoed, now able to understand the strangeness of those words. “Because it’s a man. And you’re worried he doesn’t share your feelings. That he’s not-”

“Got it in one.” Gael nodded, taking a drink of his tea. 

“Why tell me now?” Morse asked. “Why not before?”  _ Why not in any part of the time we’d known each other?  _

“You could have asked.”

“Would you have told me if I did?” Morse questioned, unsure of it. “What were you so worried about?”

Gael scoffed, a dry, bitter sound that didn’t seem to fit him. “You’re a copper, Morse. Your friends are coppers. I’m a homosexual. Historically, not such a great combination. Apologies if I didn’t lead with that right out of the gate.” 

Morse faltered, brow knitting together in confusion. In a way it served to mask the sharp sting those words had in his chest, the pain dimly registering as he lacked the energy to fully process what felt like a vague insult. What was he supposed to say? That he didn’t need to worry because it was legal now? That it had been since July? Or that of all people, Gael could have trusted him?

Telling when people were making excuses had become a skill Morse was astutely able to utilize, and he slowly realized Gael’s argument seemed to be just that. Half-baked, a knee jerk response to the scrutiny. It wasn’t the entire story, and Morse knew it. They both did. It was just a matter of who decided to uncover the rest of it. It was a crossword line with two letters filled. Hardly the full picture. 

But to Gael’s credit there was something genuine behind it, a small figure of insecurity hoping to hide from view, but betrayed by the slightest flinch in his voice. It wasn’t meant to be an insult. He was just avoiding saying the truth. 

“Why even stick around, then?” Morse asked him, trying not to lose his nerve as he met Gael’s eyes, desperately hoping that the tremor in his words wasn’t as noticeable as it felt. “If you were so concerned about me being a policeman you could have just left. But you didn’t. You knew very well who I was before I even opened my eyes in that hospital ward. So, you don’t-” Morse took a careful breath, treading the line he was so worried about crossing. “You don’t need to  _ pretend _ . I’m not like the people who did this-”

“Christ, Morse, I know that,” Gael cut him off suddenly, his voice thick with emotion. “Of course I know that. You’re the furthest thing from it. It’s just-” he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. “The truth is so often a hateful thing. It’s not always what you want to hear.”

_ Nor are lies,  _ Morse thought morosely, and he swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to recover his voice which suddenly abandoned him. “I’d like to hear the truth, Gael.”

For one nerve wracking moment of silence, Morse was afraid Gael would shut him out, but after a few more seconds he sighed and looked down at the table, hiding his eyes. 

“So many times I wanted to say something. And once I began to realize something it got harder and harder to be quiet about it, especially now since… ” Gael trailed off and tightened his hold on the cup, pursing his lips tight. 

Morse felt his stomach twist from the nerves. “Since what?” 

“Since I realized I’m in love with you.”

It was the blunt, sincere honesty of it that stole Morse’s breath, leaving him staring wordlessly at Gael, his heart hammering painfully in his chest with such determination that he was quite sure it would have liked to escape. Every nerve in his body seemed tangible in that moment, alive and buzzing, confused and ecstatic all at once. 

_ Gael was in love with him?  _

If he went back and thought about it, Morse was sure he would find a dozen different details that told him it was true, those small, caring touches, his concern that always seemed to have something more behind it, but in that moment he could only think that it was impossible because- well-  _ why?  _

“Gael…” Morse exhaled softly, wishing he could do something more than stare in disbelief. In a kinder world they might have had this talk under more favourable circumstances, not sat across each other in an interrogation room at a police station. But their lives seemed to revolve around an axis of the more chaotic sort, harder to navigate, but not impossible, despite how it felt. 

Gael pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, drawing in a sharp breath. “You were so fixated on Joan Thursday that I couldn’t very well tell you about who I was, because if I did I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep from saying that I was in love with you, and I-” Gael shook his head, letting his hands fall back to the table. “I couldn’t do that to you. You’re heartbroken over her. I know. Maybe it didn’t matter whether I knew you were like me or not, but the fact that you’re in love with someone else- it was enough to tell myself it was a lost cause. If I thought I stood a chance with you I would have said something. But I contented myself with just being your friend. I tried to draw a line, but God knows I’ve crossed it more than once.” 

He swallowed, meeting Morse’s eyes with such genuine emotion that it was impossible to do anything other than look back at them. “I love you, Morse. But I’m not asking anything of you, I don’t expect your love in return, I just want for you to try and understand. It wasn’t a matter of trust. I just couldn’t do that to you. And now that I have, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Morse was surprised to feel the prickle of tears behind his eyes and he tried to blink them away as best he could before having to swipe them away with his hand, finding the scratched and dented tabletop much easier to look at now than those too-sincere eyes. 

_ He really meant it.  _ He wasn’t asking for some grand declaration of love in return, he wasn’t asking for anything other than what Morse was willing to offer, just hoping that acceptance-  _ forgiveness-  _ was an option. 

And that was the final push that sent Morse headlong into the full, final realization that he was in love with Gael Edwards. 

Morse was used to love being something so quick and sudden, because it always had been for him. Falling in love happened so rapidly with Susan- he’d been besotted at first sight. It was hardly two months of dating Monica before he caught himself looking at engagement rings in the shop windows he passed. With Joan- well, it was almost like a switch had been flipped. There had been  _ something  _ for some time, but he couldn’t call it love. Not then. By the time it happened, she was walking away with her suitcase in hand and not a single glance back. 

He thought about Gael’s small touches again, how they came with such ease, how he’d leaned so readily into them. His concern that somehow never felt overbearing to where Morse would need to chase it away. He thought about all the little details he noticed without meaning to, how he could tell what kind of day Gael had by how he took his coffee, how he noticed the changes in his hair, how even without looking at Gael, Morse knew that he was looking back. The unexplainable sensations in his stomach and chest, fluttering and pleasant like petals in the wind. He had fit into Morse’s life so naturally, so comfortably, that everything just seemed  _ right.  _

The only reason it took this long to figure out he’d fallen in love with Gael Edwards was because it had happened so slowly, so steadily, that he had hardly noticed it at all. It was the same way a coastline could erode for decades without concern, so imperceptible that it could only be caught in retrospect. But its effect and occurrence was undeniable.

For too long he’d sought after love like he was reaching for the sun, reveling in the brief comfort before he was inevitably left burned. It was never like this, never a steady, careful warmth that would never see him come to harm. In his usual haste, Morse had always fallen in love first. The problem with wearing his heart on his sleeve was that it was exposed and vulnerable, susceptible to damage of all sorts. He’d tried so hard to chase after and hold onto whatever he was able to receive in return. Morse had promised Susan forever, even thought her forever was nought but mere weeks before she returned to her former fiancee, leaving him broken in her absence. How readily she had taken everything he offered her- and it had been everything- only to bring his world crashing down around him. Morse could watch Joan walk away that day a thousand times, could continue to nurse that ache until it consumed him, and that wouldn’t do anything but destroy him. It was up to him to end that cycle. 

And here Gael was, asking for  _ nothing  _ as he bared his heart, letting his own crumble as he tried so carefully to protect Morse’s own fragile one. Gael, who said he loved him without Morse having to do a single thing other than be himself. It was unrequited, yet beautiful in its honesty. Because despite every doubt Morse harboured about whatever he himself had to offer anyone, about his own worth, his own insecurities, he would never be able to say that Gael was lying when he said he loved him. 

He was right that the truth was often a hateful thing. Lies were safer, easier. But nothing about those words had done anything to shield him like a lie was meant to. Not like before. This was the truth in all its frightening vulnerable complexity. 

So, with the same resolve as someone making a jump from a cliff, Morse drew in a shallow breath and looked up from the empty expanse of steel between them and into the eyes of the man before him, surprised at the redness that now tinged their brilliant blue. “There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve always stood a chance. More than anyone. More than anyone, you.”

Gael stared back at him, his features laced with hope he dared not have, his eyes glinting with the same tears Morse was holding at bay. “Morse, I meant what I said, you don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t.” Morse said truthfully, and how he longed to reach across the small space and touch Gael’s hand, to give him the physical reassurance his words could never make up. “But it’s true. It’s been true for some time, it just wasn’t clear until now. I-” he felt his breath catch in his throat as the next words formed and he forced himself to breath so they could make it out. “I love you, Gael. I love you too.”

A small laugh bubbled into existence and Morse found himself smiling, watching as joy brought colour back into Gael’s face and his own smile overtook his features. Gael took his hands, wrapping both of his around them and holding them tight, shaking his head in wonderous disbelief. 

“What a pair we make,” Gael joked, and Morse stifled another laugh. “You’re sure it’s not your concussion talking?”

“Are you sure there wasn’t something in your tea?” Morse grinned and tugged a hand free to playfully swat Gael but it was caught in midair, and Morse moved to twine their fingers together, pleasantly surprised at how easily they linked. Gael’s hands, normally cool to the touch, had taken on some warmth from the hot cup of tea he’d been holding before. The fact that he could even register that made Morse notice with some relief that his own temperature had gone down at last. 

“Quite sure,” Gael assured him, and Morse was rather certain there was nothing more brilliant than his smile following those words. 

For a few moments Morse was allowed to be happy and revel in the warmth of Gael’s hands around his, the eden of his smile, the sheer hope and shining anticipation for whatever there was to come of all this. The promise behind  _ I love you  _ that had so often been given but scarcely received. It was only a few moments because that was all he was given before the door flew open and Trewlove appeared, ever the harbinger of critical news. 

“Felicity Thorpe’s been found,” she said urgently, her eyes briefly flickering over Morse and Gael’s joined hands before focusing on her colleague. “She’s downstairs now.”

Morse could have torn his hands away, but there was no erasing what Shirley had seen, and somehow it didn’t bother him. 

“And Varley?” Morse asked hopefully, silently praying for his good fortune to extend just a bit further.

No such luck. Trewlove shook her head. “He’s nowhere to be seen. Same for his daughter.”

Morse’s heart stilled in his chest, his mouth as dry as sawdust. “What?”

“Thalia- Rowan- she’s gone missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Equinox
> 
> FINALLY. IT'S BEEN DONE. I was in actual tears when writing this but that may have had more to do with Sweater Weather by the Neighbourhood playing as I wrote- actually, no, it's these angsty gays. 
> 
> Also the mention of 'it had been legal since July' is in reference to the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967 (the year this is set) which passed in July of that year and legalised homosexual relations in England and Wales between consenting adults 21 years and up. Didn't that timing just work out great.
> 
> Chiaroscuro...is almost over...In my planning I had it slated for ten chapters and it looks like it might end up being closer to eleven, maybe twelve but- it's nearly there. Fear not, as soon as this one is over I'm immediately picking up with Prisoner, the other in progress fic, and as always there will be more to follow after that. God, I'm excited. My plotting notebook is a mess of ideas atm.


	10. Equinox

Felicity Thorpe had been quickly sent off to the hospital with two WPCs from nights to guard her, and from what Morse came to understand from the brief recounting of the narrative given by Strange it seemed Felicity had gotten free from Varley and escaped from his house as he began arranging to take her down to the river. She’d run into a passing car on the road and asked them to drop her at the nearest police station and, as luck would have it, she’d been left at Cowley with officers who quickly recognised her and called an ambulance. She’d been dressed in clothes that weren’t hers, same as the others, and Strange recalled hearing her say something about Varley telling her they were his daughter’s clothes. Tessa’s. 

At least that part of it was explained. 

What didn’t make sense was what was going to happen next.

The constables and sergeants for the night shift had filled their places in the office, leaving the five of them- six, including Gael- as interlopers in a territory that was not wholly their own anymore. The window offered very little moonlight, merely a section of pitch black in the walls that were now awash with lamplight and fluorescents, giving a septic sort of look to the disorganised place that wasn’t comfortable to look at, and Morse was suddenly grateful for not having to transfer to nights despite the fact that the cost it came at was his sergeant’s exam. 

Perhaps it was the new insight to Varley’s mentality or simply the harrowing atmosphere, but it truly did feel like another realm in that moment. A time and place where nothing quite made sense- nothing but Edmund Varley’s twisted thoughts. 

“He’s never been interrupted before,” Morse rubbed the back of his neck absently in thought as he faced the sparse narrative they’d managed to piece together on the board. “It’s possible he could be searching for a replacement victim, but he’s pressed for time. I don’t see how he’ll have any luck until morning.”

“Unless he has the child,” Gael pointed out, expression fraught with shared worry over Rowan’s fate. 

It was that comment that caused Bright to catch sight of Gael out of the corner of his eye and he turned, frowning curiously at the unfamiliar man. “Who’s this?”

“Friend of Morse’s, sir,” Thursday jumped in quickly to explain, placating the short spike in suspicion that seemed to radiate from Bright’s inquisitive stare. “He’s a nurse at the Radcliffe.”

Morse could see Trewlove looking between them with mild curiosity, certainly already having pieced the puzzle together as she ducked her head to hide her smile. 

“Gael Edwards, sir,” Gael offered his hand out to shake Bright’s and the politeness of it seemed to chuff the old chief because he gave a small smile and shook his hand rather genially. “I understand I’ve you to thank for not currently being locked up at Kidlington.”

“What? Oh, yes,” Bright’s surprise was short lived and he seemed to recover from it rather quickly. He waved his hand dismissively, shaking his head. “No need to thank me, we only did what was right. You’ve just a right to be left in peace as anyone else on this earth. Now, has anyone offered to give you a lift home, Mr- Edwards, was it?”

“That’s right, sir,” Gael nodded amicably, and he glanced sideways to catch Morse’s eye, a glint of humour shining behind his own. Morse’s stifled a small laugh at the strangeness of the interaction, if not the sheer awkwardness of it. “And no, I haven’t, but I’m not far, I expect I’ll make my own way just fine. I appreciate the gesture, though.”

Morse was hesitant to send Gael away, especially after what had just happened between them. His presence alone seemed to ease Morse’s heightened sense of concern and anxiety, but he knew there was no valid excuse he’d be able to procure within the next handful of seconds to persuade not just him to stay, but for him to be  _ allowed  _ to stay. After all, he was a civilian, and they were currently in the midst of a tense, drastically evolving investigation. 

That, and it was past  _ midnight.  _ It was a surprise to Morse that anyone else had chosen to remain, but he realised soon enough that this was  _ it.  _ It was the grim finality that bound them to the final stretches of the case, the obligation, the need, to get it right this time. To end it. Their first stand against Varley  _ had  _ to be the last. A life depended on it. 

Gael had no part in all of this. Not this side of the darkness. 

But it would be that much darker without him.

By some small act of miracle, Thursday seemed to share an iota of Morse’s trepidation and held up a hand to prevent Gael from being quickly dismissed. “Now, sir, I was wondering if I might suggest something.”

“Oh, yes?” Bright frowned over his spectacles. “What’s this, Thursday?”

Thursday raised an eyebrow at Morse with an expression too fleeting for him to decipher before the inspector turned back to Bright, clearing his throat. “From my understanding, Mr. Edwards already has some insight on the case from Dr. DeBryn and Morse here. He also happens to be a nurse with some paramedic experience, isn’t that right?”

Gael looked mildly surprised, blinking a bit rapidly as he looked up at the inspector. “Yes, that’s right, inspector.”

Morse realised just where this train of thought was heading and was hardly able to mask his surprise as Thursday gave an approving nod to Gael. “It’s much too late to rouse Dr. DeBryn, and should we find ourselves in need of medical assistance for Varley’s victim, it may be too late for an ambulance. If Mr. Edwards has no objections I’d like to recommend he stay on to assist us. At least until Ed Varley’s in iron.” 

“I suppose we could do with a well-mannered and capable young man such as yourself in a pressing time like this,” Bright nodded, clearly pleased both by the brief resume and Gael’s agreeable demeanor. He was like an old peacock, fanning his wings from the flattery, and Morse almost applauded Gael for quickly being able to play into that observation and gain his favour. 

“I’d be happy to help.” Gael obliged. 

“Then that’s settled,” Bright shook his hand once more. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Edwards, for however brief a time it may be. We’re glad to have you.”

Just when Morse thought the situation couldn’t get any more bizarre, a constable from the front desk burst through the door, eyes searching rapidly until they settled on Morse. “DC Morse, your daughter’s with us downstairs. There seems to be some emergency, she’s asking for you.”

Morse felt all the focus in the room narrow in on him and the confusion caused by the statement hardly registered as he frowned, wondering if the constable was daft- mistaken, surely. “I don’t have a daughter.”

“Niece then, I dunno,” the constable shrugged. “She gave the name Rowan Morse.”

Morse’s heart nearly skipped a beat from the relief and he could feel his shoulders actually sink with the tension that was lifted off them, allowing him to relax. He recalled with slight humour the moment they’d first met, how Rowan had pretended to be Morse’s daughter in order to save him from the thugs outside of the shop when he was looking for Jason. Apparently it was a little joke that she wasn’t going to let go of. 

“It’s Thalia Varley, sir,” Morse spared a glance to Thursday, as if he was asking permission to go but well knowing he’d run down to fetch her with or without approval. 

“Bring her up.” Thursday said with an affirming nod. 

Gael caught his eye all too briefly, a fleeting look of concern directed to Morse that he had no choice but to ignore as he rushed from the room and down the stairs, the startled constable trying to keep pace with Morse as he bounded down to the ground floor. The stairs were a blur beneath his feet and Morse was grateful for the worst of the concussion having passed, otherwise he would have tripped and gone down the rest of them the fast, but painful, way. 

Down in the reception area by the front door there was a WPC that had stepped out from behind the desk and was looking around at the row of chairs against the walls with a look of mild confusion on her face. Morse gave the room a quick glance and soon saw that he and the two constables were the only occupants. There was no sign of the red haired girl anywhere. Not a trace.

“Where did she go?” Morse turned to the WPC, trying not to snap but knowing his words undoubtedly came out harsher than he intended. “The girl, where is she?”

The WPC seemed unsure and she shook her head, holding her arms wide. “I don’t know, she was just here a moment ago. I haven’t had time to search anywhere but the lav but it’s possible she could have stepped outside for a bit of air, poor thing looked frightened out of her wits.”

Morse gestured to the PC that had summoned him and pointed down the corridor toward the rest of the rooms. “Search the entire floor, I’ll check outside.” Then, to the WPC. “If anyone asks for me in the meantime send them after me.”

“You’ll need a torch, won’t you?”

“If she’s gone any further than the lampposts, it's a car I’ll need,” Morse shook his head and rushed over to the doors, pushing at the glass rather than the wood siding to open them and emerging into the night. 

The late night, early morning chill quite literally stole his breath as he let out a sharp gasp that felt like it was snatched from his chest, a puff of air floating in front of his face, just barely made visible by the lights posted along the walls by the doors. The blue police lamp post cast a correspondingly blue range of light across the ground, merging with the larger reach of other streetlamps lining the road. Morse looked down the stretch of pavement that ran past the front of the station and thought he saw a small shadow peeking from behind the corner of the building by the car park. 

“Rowan?” Morse called out into the dim lighting and the shadow retreated further around the corner. 

He wrapped his arms tight around himself, his light coat doing nothing to cut out this kind of cold, autumnal and biting, and made his way down the curving staircase from the front doors, walking slowly and deliberately so as not to frighten her. 

His footsteps echoed off the bricks walls of the station, filling the large atmosphere of silence, sounds both muffled and amplified by the blanket of darkness. The crickets of summer had long gone silent and a small breeze rustled the leaves of the bushes and trees, sending some cascading down onto the pavement. Distant cars sounded muted but the humming of electricity in the lights was unmissable. That, and the scuffing of small feet as Morse rounded the corner and saw Rowan standing not far from him.

In her large, ill fitting sweater and trousers she seemed even smaller than ever, narrow shoulders hunched in on herself as she hugged her thin arms around her waist, fiery hair dulled into copper by the low lights outside. She shivered and sniffled, glancing up at Morse quickly before returning her gaze to the ground, immobile. 

He wondered how long she’d been outside like this and looked down at her bandaged ankle, a pang of pity striking in his chest as he thought of how far she must have come from the hospital with an injury like that. She was stubborn enough to do it, surely, but- why?

“Rowan?” Morse called her name gently, reaching a tentative hand out to her, but she shuffled backward into the shadows, unwilling to let him touch her. He felt like he was trying to comfort a scared animal, and he didn’t even have much experience in that department, let alone soothing children. “Rowan, I won’t hurt you. It’s me, it’s Morse.”

“Morse.” Rowan repeated in a cracked sounding voice, almost as if she’d been crying. She looked up at him and sniffled again, dragging her sleeve across her nose. 

“That’s right.” Morse nodded, taking a careful step toward her. This time she didn’t flinch away and he took that as a good sign. “Why don’t you come inside? No one’s going to hurt you here, alright?”

Silence.

“Rowan?”

“Morse…” Rowan whimpered, her small hands balling into fists at her sides, tears trailing down her pale, freckled cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” She took another step back and stared fearfully at him- no, not  _ at him.  _ At something behind him. 

Morse frowned and started to turn, half expecting to see Strange or Trewlove, but there was no one in sight. “Rowan, what-?”

Then, suddenly, a second shadow cut across his own and large hand closed over his mouth, muffling his surprised shout. Before Morse could even think to fight back, the needle sank into the side of his neck, the world becoming as dark as the sky.

\------

Five minutes passed and Strange cast a worried look toward the stairwell, finally voicing Thursday’s growing concern with Morse’s lack of appearance. “He should be back with the kiddie by now, shouldn’t he?”

_ Yes, he should,  _ Thursday thought as he grabbed his hat and coat. Fearing the worst didn’t even begin to cover it. He  _ expected  _ the worst. 

What was it that Morse said? That Varley would be searching for another victim? 

Gael remembered all too clearly the odd man that Morse had spoken to after the concert, the one that put him on edge and convinced him to watch the entire interaction for any unease on Morse’s part. While Morse hadn’t given it too much thought, Gael was worried about how close Varley's actions had sounded like stalking. Showing up at every concert, just  _ watching  _ him. And now, to find out that same person was a serial murderer?

And they’d let Morse go get the child alone. 

“You don’t think-” Gael started, but there was no need to finish that sentence. Everyone was already thinking it. His eyes widened and he rushed toward the stairs before anyone could stop him, five sets of feet rushing down to a constable who directed them outside where there was nothing but cold and silence. Darkness and absence. 

_ No Morse.  _

“Morse!” Thursday called, his voice echoing and returning back to him like a mockery. The inspector followed the pavement to the better lit area around the corner by the cars, looking down when he stepped on something that felt like a raised cobblestone- 

_ Morse’s notebook. It was Morse’s notebook.  _

Something seized in his chest and he forced himself to look further, spotting even further evidence of Morse’s belongings, scattered on the ground like his pockets had been emptied in a hurry. 

The detective’s warrant card lay a few feet away alongside his pen, cracked open with its blue ink running free from its capsule and staining the stones. Shattered glass from a broken syringe and phial lay strewn, glittering menacingly in the low lamplight. 

They’d gone outside to find Morse and stumbled upon a crime scene. 

Bright drew in a sharp breath. “Good heavens.”

Thursday’s stomach rolled at how final it seemed to sound.  _ It’s a pen, not a body. Ink, not blood.  _ They still had time, but not much. Not anymore. A year had turned to days, days to hours, and now? Now they were running on mere minutes. Sand in the hourglass. Morse’s life, slipping through their fingers. 

“We need to get to the Cherwell,” Thursday barked, running toward the Jag. “Now!”

\------

Morse returned to consciousness slowly, at first registering the cold around him, the chill of the frost tipped grass underneath him that permeated the thin material of his shirt with ease, then the water lapping at his bare feet, and the crisp breeze that ran over his face and through his hair. 

His mother used to tell him that the winds stopped at night and only kept up if a storm was coming. Morse blinked with some difficulty, looking up at the dark mask of the night sky, mottled with heavy rain clouds, their outlines only discernible from the light of the moon they obscured. He’d never much thought about it, but perhaps there was some truth to that axiom of hers. 

_ How odd,  _ Morse thought drowsily as he stared up at the darkness above, the leaves of the trees above him only identifiable by their small shifts in the blackness of the night, leaves drifting like spots of ink streaking through the air.  _ He thought there would be moonlight.  _

Dreams were not prophecy, and Morse knew as much, but he couldn’t help but pick out the similarities and differences from his nightmare. There was a nauseating sense of deja vu as he felt the river flow over his feet, his body only a small kick from rolling fully into the water that ran by like an oil spill, colourless and foreboding. Even in the darkness, however, there was a small sense of visibility, and Morse easily recognised where he was. It was the same place they’d found Tessa Varley’s body all those years ago. The same spot on the Cherwell. 

He was back where it all began. Where it would end. 

Where he would die. 

A few drops of light rain tapped his skin with mild persistence and he became acutely aware of a dull stinging sensation on the side of his neck. As he reached to touch it, Morse found his hands bound in front of him, secured in tight bands of twine. His feet, half submerged in the shallow part of the river, were bound as well. 

Morse’s head fell back to the grass with a heavy sigh, unsure of whether to laugh or scream. There was only one reason he was even awake now, only one reason he was even bound. Varley still hadn’t gotten his measurements right for the drug. He overdosed Cleary and didn’t use enough on Abbott. Morse couldn’t be certain how long he was out, but his increasing level of alertness was a good sign that he wasn’t as inhibited as Varley would have liked him to be. 

Well, it would have been a good sign if there was something Morse could do about it. With his hands and feet bound there was little he would be able to do in fighting Varley off. His jacket, coat, tie, and shoes were gone. He was cold, almost freezing, bound, and he had no weapon. For now, his alertness only meant that he’d be awake when he died. He wasn’t sure that was a comfort. 

_ Awake.  _ Morse thought dimly, his head rolling to the side as he made out Varley’s feet walking toward him across the grass, Rowan’s smaller ones dragging alongside him, hardly keeping pace even with the man’s slight limp. Morse didn’t want to be awake. That made this real. 

But, however much it may have felt like a nightmare, it wasn’t. Morse was awake. Alive. 

_ Not for much longer.  _

Rowan dropped to the grass beside him with a small cry, her hands bound similarly, and Morse quickly turned his head to find Varley’s face staring down at him, amber eyes dull in the dark, but there was a sickening shine to them that was unmissable. That spark of madness. 

“Don’t touch her.” Morse spat with as much anger as he could muster, fighting off the shiver that threatened to throw his body into spasms. “Leave her be, Varley, she has no part in this.”

Varley moved quicker than Morse thought he’d be able to, falling to his knees and roughly seizing Morse’s jaw, angling his head up toward him, no anger in his expression, just- blank apathy. Vague curiosity. Like Morse was nothing more than an interesting object. “What do you care, Mr. Morse? It’ll all be over soon enough.”

_ For you, maybe,  _ Morse thought, hoping with what desperation he had that the patrols searching the river would come across them. Maybe he didn’t need to get free, maybe all he needed was time. 

_ Time.  _ Oh, how little of that remained. Such a fickle, fleeting thing. But each passing second was a lifeline. 

“She can’t replace Tessa, Edmund,” Morse tore his head away, recoiling from the touch. “For God’s sake, she’s just a child! Let her go!”

“I want her to see,” Varley’s hand fell back, spotted with raindrops that shimmered in the low moonlight, raindrops that were growing in number. “I want her to see what I’m doing for Tessa. To show her that I still care. That I haven’t forgotten.”

_ Care? It was a bit late for that.  _ Morse scoffed in disbelief. “So you tied her up. Forced her to be your accomplice.”

Varley shook his head impatiently. “There was no other way. A child in distress was the best way to draw out a copper. She was the perfect bait for you. You and your bleeding heart. But now she’ll only just get in the way if I set her free. It’s better this way.”

“Better?” Morse stared, brow furrowed in angry perplection. “What do you hope to accomplish by killing me, exactly? I don't fit your pattern, Varley. What changed?”

The man sat back on the grass with a sigh, and Morse saw Rowan out of the corner of his eye, the girl half frozen with fear and misery from where she had been thrown to the side, disregarded like a piece of flotsam, a pawn no longer needed to play. Morse tried to meet her eyes, tried to communicate that she should  _ run,  _ get help, but she shook her head, mouthing something back at him. 

Morse couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she was saying  _ Won’t leave you.  _

Tears pricked behind his eyes, warm against the cold but quickly cooled as they came close to falling, forcing him to blink them back. The sentiment broke his heart, and he knew there was no forcing her to leave. Not when she was afraid. Not when she felt guilty. Not when she didn’t want to go. 

“I lost her,” Varley said quietly, and Morse looked back at the man, struck by the peculiar sadness on his face. His canvas work jacket was spotted with raindrops and Morse could feel his shirt already soaking through with rain, the cuffs of his trousers already drenched from where he lay on the bank of the river. “She got away from me.”

_ Felicity Thorpe.  _

“But then I thought of you,” he continued, and as the clouds shifted, allowing more light through, his amber eyes glowed for the briefest of moments. “Orpheus. The one blessed with song and music. He traveled down to the underworld to retrieve his wife, and very nearly succeeded.”

_ Orpheus in the Underworld.  _ The first song from the concert. It seemed that a new fixation had taken root in Varley’s mind, forced to forgo his lost Persephone, and Morse felt his mouth go dry with the ever growing fear that now reached its height as he realised the new method in the madness. But Orpheus returned alive. Morse would not. 

“I’m not Orpheus.” Morse protested in vain, but there was no getting through to him. “I can’t do what you ask of me. I can’t bring your daughter back.”

“You can.” Varley insisted. “You will.”

The rushing current sounded like time flying by, sounded like the blood pounding in his ears, the increasing beating of his heart. Time. Heartbeats. Time. Rain. Morse could smell the faintest traces of incense on Varley’s clothes, dense and herbal. 

He thought about the concert, the richness of the songs, the candlelight, and for a moment he was there in memory. Only when he looked across at the audience, there was no Varley. There was no one. 

No one but Gael. 

Gael. Always Gael. He was there after Mason Gull, after Wessex Bank, after long days and hard times, but Morse was glad he was not here for this. Not like Rowan was forced to be. 

_ Gael shouldn’t have to see this.  _ Not him. Not the man he loved. Morse had done enough damage in bringing Mason Gull into Gael’s life- the fight at the hospital, Gael’s broken arm- 

It was the kind of darkness that Thursday left at the hall stand. The kind that Morse wanted to keep Gael as far away from as possible. The kind that consumed Morse, the kind that he so often found himself lost in. 

But Gael always seemed to follow Morse into it anyway, lantern in hand to find him. Bring him out to the light, or bring the light to him. 

Now, however, was much too dark. The suffocating kind that would snuff that light out in an instant. 

Morse imagined _ after. _ He would never see Gael again. But Gael would see him. There was no saving Gael from the sight of Morse’s body tangled in the river’s weeds, battered and bruised by Varley’s hand. Dead. Dead and gone. 

Time. Was this all they would get? Was this the plot, the grand design? Was he doomed to love, only to lose, time and time again, and this the last? Would they get no more happiness than the brief aftermath of their mutual confessions?

_ Love confessions in an interrogation room.  _ Ironic. But it was more than a confession, it was a declaration. Adamant and true. 

Happiness. How foreign, how unfamiliar. But Morse felt the possibility of it, a warmth that didn’t scorch, a light that didn’t hurt. With Gael. 

He felt love, and he felt loved in return. But time had played traitor and was not on their side. Minutes, an hour, at most. Was that all they were due?

No. It couldn’t be. 

_ No. This wasn’t hopeless.  _

He’d fought to get to Gael before. 

All he needed to do was fight some more. 

Just for a little bit longer. 

For Gael.

For  _ them.  _

_ Find something worth defending. Something the darkness can’t take from you.  _

Some _ one. _

Varley stood and his hands seized Morse’s shoulders, hauling him up. With more action than thought, Morse twisted sharply in his grasp, falling back to the ground and striking out at Varley’s damaged leg, reveling in the howl of pain that followed. The man dropped to his knee, drawing in a hissing, agonised breath, and Morse drew his legs up, kicking out at him with a violent yell that tore at his throat and echoed across the sprawling park. Rowan shrieked as Varley fell back, splashing into the shallows of the river and sending up a burst of cold water than mingled with the rain, now a full on downpour, lightning splitting the sky with a streak of luminous chaos and a thunderous roar. 

But above it all, Morse could hear his name. Snatched away by the storm and carried to him, torch beams swaying in the distance. 

“HERE!” Morse cried, hoping that it wasn’t some cruel trick of his mind, that they weren’t just phantoms.  _ This,  _ he wanted to be real. This alone. “WE’RE HERE!”

“NO!” Varley scrambled to his feet and grabbed onto Morse’s arms, dragging him into the water. “No! I can still do this!”

Morse thrashed and fought, but the cold of the water made his movements slow and the ropes restricted any effective fight. His bound feet kicked at the silt at the bottom of the river but soon he could no longer touch it, kept up only by the strength of Varley’s grip as he pulled Morse deeper into the waters. He shouted but Varley forced his head under the water before bringing him back to the surface, sputtering and gasping, trying to rid the frigid waters from his mouth. 

“Save your voice for the dead, Morse,” Varley hissed in his ear, removing his hands from Morse’s arms to grasp his shoulders, claws digging through his shirt, piercing him. His attacker's hair clung to his forehead in dark tendrils, eyes aflame like the lightning of the storm, the dark form from Morse’s nightmares now given a face.  _ Varley’s _ face. “And remember the flaw in Orpheus’ tale.  _ Don’t. Look. Back.” _

The last sands fell through to the bottom of the hourglass. 

He’d fought, but it wasn’t enough. 

Time was up.

Varley forced Morse under the water completely, and all was lost to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Eudaimonia
> 
> We've done it, everyone. The end is in sight. One more chapter left.


	11. Eudaimonia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. The final chapter. Excuse me while I go be emotional

The storm was bearing down on them with full force by the time they arrived at the river, trampling across the grass with torchlights swaying in the dark searching desperately. They were ill suited for the weather, that much was certain, and as rain pelted him and soaked into his wool coat it weighed it down like a lead jacket. Thursday felt his dread slowly turn into despair, watching the frenzied sway of torches in the dark. It was a pitch black night, only a slight sheen to the river marking its presence several dozen yards down from the road. 

“Morse!” Thursday shouted into the dark, and Gael quickly followed suit along with the others, the air soon filled with their shouts, battling against the storm. “MORSE!”

For a few terrible moments, Thursday worried that his guess was wrong. He brought them all down to the stretch of the river where they first found Tessa Varley’s body all those years ago, the location fresh in his mind from the case files and map on the wall. This was it for Varley, and the man must have known that. It was only fitting for things to end where they began. 

The rain made its way into the small scrap of hope that sat in Thursday’s chest, drowning it as the small group made their way down the grass, and he glanced sideways at Gael Edwards, the man’s pale face a sheet of desperation and fear as he shouted and shouted for Morse. 

Thursday didn’t become an inspector by being bad at his job. Even so, it would take a fool not to see just how much Gael cared about Morse. There was no mistaking love when he saw it, and he  _ knew.  _ He knew when he saw Morse run to Gael in the fight, he knew when Gael asked after Morse in that interrogation room, and he knew when he sent Morse to him. Maybe he’d noticed even before that. But between the grief of Joan vanishing and the hectic nature of his day to day life, Thursday hadn’t given much thought to his bagman’s personal life. He’d always had a fatherly investment in Morse’s affairs, always tried to encourage him to hold onto those he loved, to live life, embrace it. 

Morse had that chance now. With Gael. Thursday saw that clear as day. 

If this were to end badly- if they didn’t find Morse-

That train of thought was soon crashed as another voice cut across the storm. It was frantic, weakened, but Thursday would recognize it anywhere. 

_ Morse.  _

_ It was Morse. _

_ “WE’RE HERE!”  _ Morse’s voice cried near the bank of the river and Thursday quickly broke into a sprint, his battered lungs protesting against it, but he forced himself to ignore the pain. 

They weren’t too late.  _ He was still alive.  _

The sheer relief of it felt borderline intoxicating but it fell short against the adrenaline and fear that kicked in as Thursday surged across the length of the park, flying blind in the darkness. The torches swayed chaotically as they all ran down to the river, searching for the source of that cry, but the rain made it hard for the beams of light to gain a wider reach. Movement in the dark caught Thursday’s eye as they neared and he could see a dark form dragging a body into the water, thrashing and squirming, only to disappear as it was forced under the water and held there.

Not just a body. It was Morse. 

“There!” Thursday bellowed, rushing to close the distance between himself and the river. By the time they reached the bank, the water around Varley was still aside from the flow of the current and battering rain. 

What did that mean? Morse was there just a moment ago-

A child sobbed nearby and Strange rushed to her, removing his jacket to cover her shaking body. Trewlove turned and ran to radio for an ambulance as Thursday scanned the water wildly, searching for any sign of Morse. He began shucking off his coat, preparing to leap in, when Varley turned and began wading back toward the shore, his face impassive and devoid of emotion as he moved through the water. It was almost as if he was sleepwalking, the way he moved so listlessly. 

There was no sign of Morse. 

“NO!” Gael shouted with a sort of broken desperation intertwined with formless rage, and before Thursday or Bright could stop him, he threw his jacket and shoes off, jumping straight into the river. The water was frigid and it stole his breath the second he got in deeper than his thighs, the speed of the storm charged current nearly strong enough to sweep his legs out from under him, and he realized with distinct fear that it may have been enough to drag Morse away downstream. 

Thursday thought of the stillness of the river, the disconcerting lack of Morse’s presence after he’d gone under the water. Varley always left the bodies somewhere for them to find. But as he scoured the bank he saw no sign of Morse’s body, dead or alive, and he felt his throat close up, fear overtaking him. 

_ He’d left him in the water.  _

“Edwards!” Thursday yelled too late, and he was forced to look away from where he disappeared under the water once Varley neared the shore enough for the inspector to seize the front of the man’s shirt and haul him bodily onto land. 

Varley made no effort to fight back against Thursday as he was dragged onto the grass and thrown roughly to the ground, shoved onto his front, wrists yanked behind his back and cuffed. He simply chuckled and sighed as he was turned back over to face the officers. 

“It’s done.” Varley said simply, and he shivered, no doubt due to the fact that his entire body was soaked from the river and rain. “I did it.”

“Edmund Varley, you’re under arrest for the murders of Enid Cleary, Josephine Abbott, the abduction and unlawful imprisonment of Felicity Thorpe, and the abduction and assault of Detective Constable Morse-” Thursday growled out the charges, rain trailing heavily down his face, but that only made Varley laugh even harder, the insufferable sound rising against the thundering sky. 

“You don’t get it, inspector.” Varley closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the grass as the rain hit his body. “I said it’s done. He’s gone.”

Thursday’s heart hammered painfully in his chest and he turned sharply back to the river behind him, seeing only vague ripples from where he last saw Gael go under, but there was no sign of the two men in the dark water. The heavy rain was causing the river to swell already, pressing up against the banks and quickening the current. Briefly, he saw Gael’s head break the surface of the water a small distance downstream, only to duck back down again. 

Trewlove rushed back down the grass, breathing heavily, her blond hair straggling from under her hat and plastered to the side of her face. “Ambulance is on its way, sirs.”

“Strange, take him away.” Thursday said roughly, and Trewlove went to the girl in the sergeant's place, taking out her pocket knife to cut away the ropes around her wrists. 

Morse could have possibly held his own unbound, but if Varley had tied him up similarly- well there was no way he’d be able to fight back, let alone even swim. 

_ If he was still alive.  _

“Thursday-” Bright began to say, his frail voice tinged with something similar to sympathy, verging on hopelessness. Thursday didn’t want to hear him say it. He didn’t want to give up on Morse just yet. Not when there was still even the smallest inkling of a chance. 

Gael’s head broke the surface of the water again, even further down river, and this time he was joined by another figure. 

A slight glint of reddish hair in the glow of the lightning strike that arched across the sky gave Thursday just enough hope to breathe again. 

“I’ve got him!” Gael roared, struggling to keep the weight of his and Morse’s bodies upright against the current, and Thursday could barely make out Morse’s face, his soaked clothes clinging to his lithe frame and hands bound in front of him. 

Thursday and Bright rushed down the bank to where Gael was struggling to half swim, half walk perpendicular to the current, dragging Morse’s limp body with him and gasping urgently for air. 

The man was unmoving, held against Gael’s chest with one arm while the other reached out for Thursday’s extended hand as they finally got close enough to the bank. When Thursday hauled them both out of the water he noticed with increasing panic that Morse wasn’t moving at all. There was no dazed flutter of his eyelids or heaving of his chest as he fought to breathe. In fact, Thursday wasn’t even sure he was breathing at all. He quickly cut the binds from his hands and feet, casting the ropes aside, freeing Morse, but there was no reaction. 

“Is he alive?” Bright’s voice shook ever so slightly, but no one was able to answer him. 

Morse remained still, even as Gael collapsed with him onto the grass, gasping heavily from the exertion and time underwater. Gael coughed and wheezed as he rolled onto his front, pushing himself up with shaking arms as he crawled over to Morse, and Thursday dropped to his knees beside his bagman, staring horrified at the unmoving form in front of him. 

With shaking hands he reached out for Morse’s wrist, pressing his fingers above the pulsepoint, searching for that small flutter of a pulse that should be there, hoping to find the thrum of blood flowing underneath Morse’s skin beneath Thursday’s fingertips. 

Nothing. 

Just cold. 

No pulse. 

Nothing. 

Thursday let out a low, sick moan and fell back on his heels, letting Morse’s arm fall lightly to the wet ground.

Bright got his answer and he stumbled back, pressing a hand to his mouth. 

_ Dead,  _ Thursday thought numbly.  _ He’s dead.  _

Gael was not as discouraged, frantically beginning chest compressions even as his arms shook from the cold and battling the river for so long. 

“Inspector, I need you to take over,” Gael said urgently, shuffling to make room for him and guiding his hands into place. Muscle memory sprung to life and Thursday remembered his basic training from the army, trying his best to aid in resuscitation. He’d seen men do this wrong and crack sternums on the battlefield, but the nurse knew what he was doing and he didn’t offer any criticism. Bright tried to hold a torch steady above them as he looked back up to the road for any sign of an ambulance. 

“Stop for a moment,” Gael instructed, and Thursday paused, lifting his hands away from Morse’s soaked chest. 

The nurse only hesitated for the briefest of seconds before he gingerly tilted Morse’s chin back and pinched his nose shut, sealing his mouth over his. He exhaled deeply, trying to coax air into the man’s stilled lungs, and Morse’s chest rose slightly from the effort. Thursday froze as Gael leaned his ear close to Morse’s lips, listening for any sign of self sustained breathing. 

Nothing. 

They fell into a pattern from there. Compress. Breathe. Compress. Breathe. Thursday felt no heartbeat under his hands, just Morse’s wet shirt and bony chest. The rain refused to let up and the pounding hail of water from the sky did little to ease the process, forcing Thursday to continually blink his eyes clear in order to focus on Morse’s body. 

Gael squeezed his eyes shut, frustrated, desperate tears running down his face, almost indistinguishable from the rain. 

_ “Breathe,” _ he gasped, slumping forward over Morse, struggling to keep himself upright. “Damn you, just  _ breathe.” _

Thursday drew back as Gael forced another breath through Morse’s parted lips, listening for a moment, then doing a set of compressions, but it looked like his hands were shaking too badly to do much of anything. He placed his mouth over Morse’s once more, moving to pinch his nose shut, and that was when Morse jolted into motion, violently spasming beneath him. 

Morse’s back arched and his eyes flew open as he suddenly came to life before them, his pale face the picture of agony as he quickly collapsed onto his side and began coughing up mouthfuls of river water, retching and coughing with rib shattering intensity. Gael reached for him before Thursday could think to move, grabbing his shoulder to steady him and rubbing his back with soothing ministrations to ease the laboured hacking.

“There you are,” Gael’s voice cracked with emotion as he murmured encouragingly, trying to calm Morse as he began to shake and shiver. “Easy, Morse, just get it all out.”

Eventually Morse cleared the rest of the Cherwell from his lungs and slumped into the grass, breathing heavily, ragged and uneven as he reclaimed the air he was deprived of for so long. Thursday looked up and saw red and blue lights flashing up by the road, signaling the arrival of the ambulance. 

_ And not a moment too soon,  _ Thursday thought dryly through the drunken haze of relief that seized him. He reached out to chafe some warmth into Morse’s arms, shocked at how cold he remained, but there was air in his lungs and a beat in his heart and that would have to do for now. 

They lost him. But he came back. 

Morse curled toward Gael, hands scrabbling weakly at the grass and Gael caught them between his own, holding them to his lips and blowing warmth onto his trembling fingers. His thin chest heaved with his breaths and Morse let out a choked, keening whimper that sank into Thursday’s heart like a knife. 

Gael noticed the ambulance, and consequently the distance between them and the vehicle. He looked at Thursday tiredly, exhausted to the bone. 

“Are you able to carry him?” he asked weakly, glancing back down at Morse. “I just- I can’t-”

His arms were trembling even from the effort of holding Morse’s hands and Thursday regretted that they didn’t call a second ambulance for Gael as well. It only took one look at the Cherwell to see how merciless it was in this state, fed by the storm and chilled by the autumnal weather. 

“Don’t you worry,” Thursday assured Gael, nodding. “You’ve done all you can. I’ve got him.”

Thursday lifted Morse with ease, cradling him against his chest like he used to do with Joan and Sam when they were smaller and got injured. Morse felt no lighter than that, but Thursday wrote it off as his own adrenaline. He waited for Gael to rise shakily to his feet, Bright holding out an arm for him to steady himself on, and they made their way up to the ambulance with as much haste as they could manage.

The heat was cranked up in the back of the vehicle and Thursday lowered Morse onto the stretcher the medics had prepared inside of the ambulance, bringing it out as they approached. With some difficulty, Morse’s wet shirt was peeled off and replaced with a scratchy grey blanket tucked carefully around him. 

“In you get,” Thursday encouraged Gael to climb into the back of the ambulance and he followed after him, his legs giving out as he slumped onto the bench beside Gael, leaning his head back against the metal wall and breathing heavily. One medic stayed in the back with them and the other closed the doors, jumping into the front and soon they were off. 

Thursday found a second blanket and draped it over Gael’s shoulders. The man gave a weak smile and pulled the blanket tight around him, shivering tiredly as he watched Morse’s breathing grow steadier as the medic began to work, piling another blanket atop him and pulling one arm free to insert an IV drip. 

Morse blinked lazily, his head lolling toward Gael and Thursday, recognition and relief flickering across his near translucent features, his blue eyes dimmed but slowly regaining light. His lips were tinged purple from the cold, and Thursday knew that even though they revived him, that was just the start of this battle. Hypothermia and pneumonia were fair contenders in the state he was in. 

“Varley was right,” Morse slurred, his eyes sliding shut before he forced them open again, peering wearily at them as he shivered. Hearing his voice for the first time since he’d come back settled Thursday’s worry considerably, and Morse’s mouth did something that must have been a smile, but it looked more like a grimace than anything. “Orpheus. Came back.”

Thursday had no idea what those words were meant to mean, but they were clearly significant to Morse because he looked troubled for a moment before shaking his head like he was physically clearing a thought away. Something best not remembered. 

His hand wandered out from under the blanket and Gael caught it, pressing two fingers to his wrist to check the pulse that Thursday couldn’t find earlier but was now there, loud and clear. Gael’s shoulders slumped with relief and he replaced Morse’s hand back underneath the layers of warmth, tucking the blankets more securely around his side. 

“You’re going to be just fine, Morse.” Gael reassured him with a smile, his eyes bleary with tears, either from cold, exhaustion, or just sheer relief. A combination of everything, maybe. “You’re safe.”

“Of course I am,” Morse closed his eyes and settled back against the cot, letting out a soft sigh, the corner of his lips quirked into a faint smile.  _ “You’re _ here.” 

Thursday felt like he was intruding on a private moment, but there was nothing to be done about it. Morse lay back quietly after those last words, drained of all energy, and let the medic to his job. 

The ambulance sped through the night, a small haven in the storm. 

\------

Morse woke surrounded by a hazy softness and warmth that seemed almost irreconcilable with his last clear memories that gently floated along with him to consciousness like flotsam drifting through calm waters. 

_ Varley. River. Storm. Cold. River. Nothing.  _

The time between  _ nothing  _ and  _ now  _ was a honey tinted blur of lights, motion, warmth, interspersed with darkness- not like the dark of the storm, but the comforting one of dreamless sleep and quiet. 

It took effort to open his eyes but eventually he managed, blinking weakly as he struggled to take in his surroundings, his sleep addled mind warring with confusion and fleeting traces of fear. Something wrapped around his left arm and there was a firm warmth that enveloped his right hand, keeping it steady, but none of it felt confining, and the memory of the ropes around his wrists was banished. 

He was in a hospital room. A small, private one, white walled and sparsely decorated, save for a vase of flowers on the table by the door and some generic photo that hung above it on the wall. There was a lamp as well, but there was no need for it, the bulb dimmed as natural light filtered in through the half draw blind of the window. The light was cold and grey, tinged with morning blue, and Morse recognized the aura of the autumnal morning that seemed to hang in the air, accentuated with peaceful silence and calm. 

Thick blankets were pulled up to his chest and he was dressed in light thermal clothing, warm compresses tucked up against his body, their warmth insulated by the covers. He let his eyes fall shut again for a brief moment, taking in the comfort that he was somehow swathed in, a stark contrast to the last thing he recalled with any significant clarity- the cold, unforgiving embrace of the river. 

Morse dimly began to register the scratching of a pen on paper and the faintly crisp scent of shampoo, or perhaps aftershave, cutting across the dull, septic feel of the room. He opened his eyes again and turned his head to the right, seeking out the source.

Gael was sitting in a chair beside his bed, one hand wrapped loosely around Morse’s, absently stroking the back of his hand with his thumb as he worked on a half finished crossword puzzle, balancing the newspaper on his leg as he worked. His hair was slightly damp and curling, his skin flushed slightly like he’d just come from a hot shower. That would explain the clean scent of shampoo, at least. 

His long black coat hung over the back of the chair, leaving him in a warm, dark blue sweater that Morse was sure he’d seen him wearing on a colder day earlier in the week. 

As Morse watched him through half lidded eyes, some of those formless memories began to organize themselves into distinguishable shapes, and Gael’s face rose above them, surrounded by the interior light of an ambulance. 

_ Safe.  _

Morse lightly squeezed the hand that was holding his, stiff fingers unwilling to entirely cooperate, but it was enough to gain Gael’s attention. He looked up sharply, quickly realizing Morse was awake, and placed the newspaper and pen on the nightstand, his attention now entirely on him.

“You’re awake,” Gael sighed with relief, his head falling down between his shoulders before he looked back up at him, and Morse noticed the dark circles under his eyes, reddish-purple tinges at the corners like faint bruises. “You certainly took your time.”

Morse made a low sound in the back of his throat as he tried to speak and he coughed, making a second attempt that yielded more success. “I thought…it was morning.” he said hoarsely, his voice raw and dry. He tried to push himself into a sitting position and failed, slumping back against the pillows. 

“Of the next day.” Gael elaborated, releasing Morse’s hand to help him sit up, arranging the pillows comfortably behind his back. He took a thermos and mug from the nightstand, filling the cup with fragrant, steaming tea. “You’ve been asleep for just over thirty hours. Here, you’ll want to get this down you.”

Gael tilted the mug against Morse’s lips and Morse brought up his hand to help steady it, not trusting himself to hold it on his own as he gratefully drank the hot tea, feeling the warmth coarse through his body in an instant. There was far too much sugar in it, more than he usually took, if he ever did, but the sweetness almost made it easier for him to stomach.

Morse pushed the cup away with a sigh and closed his eyes, settling back against the pillows. Memories were coming in small scraps, his mind only able to salvage fragments from the ordeal, and he knew that he couldn’t expect much else to return to him. 

“Off duty?” Morse tried for a small smile, gesturing weakly at Gael’s clothes with the arm that wasn’t attached to an IV. 

Gael chuckled, shaking his head tiredly. “I’m never off duty when it comes to you, apparently. But yes, I’ve been given a few days leave to recover, as it were.”

Morse almost frowned, confused by the use of the word  _ recover  _ since Gael looked relatively unharmed- after all, he wasn’t the one in the hospital bed- but a flicker of a memory brought the pieces together, forming a small picture. “You pulled me from the river. You came in after me.”

Gael looked surprised. “How did you know that?”

“I remember your hands. They were as cold as mine.” Morse huffed out a sigh, nuzzling his head sleepily into the warmth of the pillows. “That was stupid of you.”

“You make it difficult to think rationally.” Gael countered, rising from the chair to sit on the edge of Morse’s bed, messing with the blankets a bit fussily and drawing them further up Morse’s chest. “Inspector Thursday’s been in along with a few of your colleagues to check on you. I’m sure Thursday will be back once actual visiting hours begin, he’ll be glad to see you awake.”

Morse suddenly realized that Gael’s presence this early in the day was no doubt due to him pulling some strings with the other nurse’s, getting permission to stay with him. 

“What happened?” Morse asked Gael, hoping to rely on him to fill in the blanks. If he truly missed a whole day sleeping then there were surely things he missed. “With Varley.”

“Last I saw of him he was being taken away in handcuffs,” Gael shrugged, and Morse leaned into his touch as he brushed a wayward curl from Morse’s forehead. “The girl- his daughter- she was here yesterday to get checked out, make sure she hadn’t sustained much harm.”

Morse suddenly became alert at the mention of Rowan and he looked at Gael inquisitively. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“I heard her telling one of the nurses that she has an aunt over in Kent who would be able to take her in. Someone from Welfare arranged it by the afternoon and they took her away.” Gael explained lightly. “I’m sure they’ll do right by her.”

“I see.” Morse blinked quickly, becoming interested in the IV lines. 

Gael frowned. “Something the matter?”

“I just thought I-” Morse couldn’t explain the emotion that passed over him in that split second, something along the lines of a flickering sense of paternal folly that came up out of nowhere but was soon gone, leaving a faint sense of loss in its wake. What was he about to say? That for all Rowan’s joking and pretending that Morse was her father it had actually struck a chord in him? That her stubbornness and clever, carefree nature had reminded him of the childhood he had snatched from him? It was a ridiculous train of thought, best not dwelled upon. He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Rightfully, Gael didn’t seem wholly convinced.

Morse nodded and sought out Gael’s hand again, seeking out the warmth and comfort of the touch. “Of course.”

Gael was quiet for a moment, staring down at their intertwined hands. “I- we- we lost you for a moment. At the river.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, and instead of speaking he just met Gael’s eyes, shocked at how utterly wrecked he looked in his concern, and Morse felt a lump of emotion rise in his throat. Somehow, Morse was reminded of the first day they met under very similar circumstances in this same hospital. Some things had remained the same over the months, while others were very much changed. 

“What do you think about this?” Gael asked softly. “Us, I mean.”

It didn’t take Morse long to answer. “The ancient Greeks had this word,  _ eudaimonia- _ ”

Gael laughed lightly, shaking his head. “I don’t care what the ancient Greeks said, Morse, I want to know what  _ you  _ have to say.”

Morse smiled and felt a warmth stir in his chest that had nothing to do with the tea or blankets. “I want to see where this goes. If you’re willing to.”

“You know I am.” Gael replied, slightly breathless as he smiled back. “Just as well. Our first kiss definitely didn’t go as planned.”

“You could always try again.” Morse suggested a bit hopefully. 

Without thinking much he moved as Gael did, meeting him halfway in a gentle kiss, the soft press of Gael’s lips against his own sending a surge of pleasant warmth through him, and he brought up his free arm to twine around Gael’s neck, pulling him close. He could feel Gael’s hands curling around the back of his head, combing lightly through his hair above the nape of his neck, and Morse sighed contentedly, pulling away to breathe after a moment. 

He rested his forehead against Gael’s closing his eyes as he regained his breath, feeling the warm puffs of Gael’s own breathing against his cheek. 

“Not going to overdo it while you’re in hospital like this,” Gael’s tired eyes were significantly brighter and Morse could feel his heart thrumming happily in his chest. 

Morse let out a single laugh and fell back against the pillows, shuffling a bit until he was lying down again, his eyes drifting shut of their own accord before he could stop them. “Are you staying?”

He meant staying in the hospital, but Gael seemed to take it differently.

“As long as you want me around.” Gael promised, taking Morse’s hand again.

That brought a small smile to his face. “That could be a while.” 

“I’m hoping it will be.”

“Good.” Morse angled himself toward Gael as he made himself comfortable, and one of Gael’s hands drifted back to Morse’s head, lightly smoothing over his hair. It was comforting, grounding, and as Morse slowly sank back into the depths of sleep he felt himself go with an emotion that hadn’t accompanied him into that descent in a while.

_ Eudaimonia. _

Happiness. 

[Fin.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been so supportive as this story unfolded over the past handful of months, it means more than I can possibly say. I'm especially thankful for all the positivity that Gael has received so I hope you'll be happy to hear that his story isn't over yet and he'll be joining in the next fic I'll be posting immediately after this chapter goes up. This new fic, Enigma, will be focused on conspiracy and espionage stemming from Morse's time in Signals that has reached Oxford almost one year after Chiaroscuro. Plenty of flashbacks and historical references to follow.   
Alongside that, I'll be working on another fic, This House of Dust (working title, still unsure if I'll keep it) that's an extremely canon-deviant take on Morse's childhood, his teenage years, his father, Eddie Nero, and how Morse's path crosses with Thursday for the first time. Basically a very complex case-fic/Thursdays adopt Morse full of angst but a happy ending, naturally.   
Anyway, thank you so much for reading and I hope you'll enjoy the new stories I have coming!


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